There Isn't a Flag I Haven't Waved
by Setaflow
Summary: Born to a Shawnee healer and a colonist woman, Ava is thrust into the world of the Assassins unwillingly. When everything is stripped away from her, she is forced to change her faith and her way of life in order to survive. But even as she deals with pain and loss, she also finds hope, trust, friendship, and love, and even discovers that the world is not as she really thought.
1. Babel

**Hello everyone. This is my first fanfiction, but don't spare anything. If you feel like it's going too slowly, please stick with it. This first chapter will probably stink, but it will get better with experience. I don't own anything in AC, just my OC's.**

**Thanks for viewing and please enjoy!**

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_August 3__rd__, 1761_

Fires burned outside in the village center, causing my eyes to water in the summer heat as I peered around the corner of my longhouse. All around, members of my tribe prepared for the ceremonies that would take place tonight: warriors showed off a large buck they had taken down this morning, women mixed meat and vegetables for the feasts, and a large group of children rushed back into the tribe, brandishing the variety of feathers that they had found in the forest. Some feathers were those of songbirds, but I noticed that Lalawethika managed to find an eagle's feather, large and dull against the smaller and more colorful feathers. A few men and women of the tribe sat at the edge of the fire, passing around the large firewater bottle and taking sips in turns. Even at this distance, the smell of it made me gag.

"Kunishoka, please come back in here! You need to help me mix this poultice!" I heard my father call from deeper inside our longhouse.

I suppressed the sigh building up in my throat and turned away from the entrance to our home to answer him. My father is a kind man, but always busy. Being the tribe's only healer has taken its toll on his bones. He rarely rests because he has to constantly take care of one ache or another. I sit down beside him as I think and pick up a mashing rock.

"Tell me, young one, what do you use to calm a stomachache?"

I snap back into the longhouse. My father is quizzing me. He always does this. Even though my memory is sharp, I can't help but glance at the large piles of leaves in the back, stacked neatly depending the aliment.

"Devils claw, father"

"Correct, what do we use for burns?"

"Wasn't that a poultice of oak bark?"

"Yes. How about poisoning?"

That one was tricky. Poisoning of any kind was rare in our village. "Mint leaves?"

Father shook his head and laughs slightly. "No, Kuni. We use dock leaves to purify the blood of most types of poison. Do you know who this poultice we are mixing is for?" When I shake my head, my father continues his work. "It is for Cathaecassa. His fever broke this morning, and these herbs will give him strength for tonight's festivities."

My father's words remind me of our recurring argument we had this morning. "Why can't I go to the festivities tonight? There is food, and there will be dancing. Now that the colonists have settled so close to our lands, there has been hardly any cause for celebration! All the other children are going! Please?!"

"But there is also firewater. The adults of our village lack any kind of common sense. I have seen firewater's effects firsthand, young one. It destroys people. As long as that foul drink is in our village, I cannot permit you to attend a celebration. Please understand, Kunishoka. I'm doing this for your own good."

"But I-" I'm unable finish this sentence before Methoataske appears at our entrance.

Methoataske is a kind woman, young and beautiful. Although she has none of her own, she is like a mother to all of the children in our tribe, especially me, considering my lack of a mother. She seems to be the only one who does not care that my mother was a colonist, except for my father, of course. She is next in line to be the Clan Mother, but her mother is still young, and my father says that Methoataske will not get the position for a long time.

Methoataske's face is furrowed with concern, and she speaks quickly and quietly. "Tenskwatawa, Cathaecassa's temperature has risen again. He did not heed your warning and decided to participate in the hunt this morning with the other warriors. He refuses rest before the feast. Do you have any more feverfew to cool him down?"

"Kuni," My father turns to me. "You brought the feverfew to Cathaecassa last night. Is there any left?"

"I don't think so."

"Fair enough." My father sighs, puts down his mashing rock, and stand up. "I will need to gather more feverfew at the top of the Highpoint. Would you like to come with me, young one?"

My eyes widen. Children as young as I am normally are only allowed to go as far as the lake, and the Highpoint is over the lake and up the north path. Methoataske looks skeptical now, and for a heartbeat I wonder if I should stay in the village, but the thought leaves my mind as soon as it enters.

Methoataske speaks before I can. "Kunishoka is still small. Can she handle a journey such as this?"

"Kuni is five," my father replies, placing a hand on my shoulder. "And she will need to learn where the herbs grow in our territory if she hopes of succeeding me when I pass on. Besides, we all need to get out in the fresh open air and stretch our legs every once and awhile. So long as she stays close to me, she won't get hurt."

For a moment, Methoataske's eyes flash with an unknown emotion, so brief I thought I may have imagined it. But she shakes her head and laughs, her eyes bright once more. "Very well. I'll tell my mother where you have gone. But don't be gone for too long. Or I will send a search party for you." With that, she exits.

Father and I are left alone. My excitement is threatening to bubble over. I was really going out to see some of our territory! I would be going farther than the children who were 10 years old were going. "Did you really mean that? I can really come?"

"So long as you behave yourself. Do what I say, and don't wander off. We'll leave when the sun is at its highest point."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Our tribe is the last tribe remaining in the east out of the Shawnee. When the colonists came to close to their territory, the rest of the Shawnee moved. Some say that they moved west, where there are less settlers, and the French were rumored to be much kinder to Natives like us than the English. They hunt the beavers that populate the rivers and sell them to get by in an unfamiliar land.

The village we live in is located at the bottom of a large mountain, one that we refer to as the LakeRock. Few people can scale it: only those who can climb up cliffs as easily as an eagle can fly have ever made it to the top. Mothers like to tell their children that the great spirits make their homes at the top of the LakeRock so they can watch over us and bless us with good weather and harvests.

South of the LakeRock is its namesake. Our lake is located not far from our village, and children are taught to swim in its shallows at a young age. When children reach the age of ten, they are taught to climb trees: men to hunt, and women to gather the leaves and such that grows towards the highest parts. The lake also provides water for our crops.

To the east and the west lie our hunting grounds. Father says that as long as we follow the path the sun takes, we will never be lost. Warrior men usually take their bows and go hunting for the tribe in either direction. I have no appetite for hunting, but sometimes they take the boys on a hunting party, and they will manage to bring back a small animal.

To the south are were the colonists are. Methoataske says that they built large longhouses made of rocks and hunt using sticks that shoot fire. People from our village may sometimes go into town to trade the meat or crops for other colonial made items, like the firewater.

To the north, over the LakeRock, is a valley. There is another tribe that lives in the valley, but father says they like to keep to themselves.

In order to get to the Highpoint, father and I start our journey by canoeing south across the lake. It takes a while, but we eventually reach the other side before we head up the slope towards the Highpoint. Along the way, my father tells stories about when he was young and his father would take him here to gather herbs. One time, he wandered off and nearly got trampled by a herd of deer. Another time, we nearly fell off the cliffs at the Highpoint. I know they are just stories to scare me, but I wouldn't run off anyways. Walking in the woods alone scare me. I can't even walk to the lakeshore without someone with me.

As we talk about my father's adventurous youth, I feel the need to ask a question that had been on my mind for a while.

"Father, can you tell me about my mother?"

My father's eyes soften at the mention of her. "She was a beautiful women. Patient and smart. Beautiful as well. She wandered into the woods one day not far from here, and I lead her back to her town. We continued to visit each other for almost four seasons, until she said she had to leave, and gave you to me. I haven't seen her since." He slows his pace to allow me to catch up to him as we march up the steep path through the woods along the cliff.

"You have her eyes, you know. I have no doubt you'll grow into a fine young women, like her." He finished as we approached the Highpoint. I wanted to question my father more about my mother, but our arrival at the top of the Highpoint delays my thoughts.

The Highpoint was, no other word to describe it, _beautiful. _The aroma of the place was enough to make a man cry. Flowers and herbs of all colors bloomed in the sweet summer breeze, and at the edge of the cliff, you could see for miles. A twisted trunk grew on the edge, and I walk over to the edge to see what was below. If someone climbed onto the tip of the trunk, they could dive into the lake. The sun was gradually making its way down, turning the water golden.

"Do you like what you see?" My father calls out. He is behind me, no doubt picking the feverfew Cathaecassa needs.

"Father, is it a bad thing that my mother was a colonist?" I ask.

"Of course not, Kuni. It does not change who you are. Why would you ask?"

I hesitate. "A few days ago, Lalawethika pushed me into the lake. He said that I shouldn't be in the village because my mother was a…'paleface', and because my skin is lighter than everyone else in the tribe. He said that I should go back to my mother. I've seen some of the ways the older men look at me, and I know they agree with him. Is he right? Do I really not belong here?"

The look in his eyes nearly made me cry. Sadness and understanding burn in their depths. "Come here little one, and sit with me."

I obey, sitting on the grass as the flowers tickle my skin and my father kneels behind me. He uses his gentle hands, a product of many years of healing, and takes out my braids. He talks to me while re-braiding my hair.

"They are wrong. One day, I will pass on into the other world, and you will be the new healer. If they need a healer, they will come to you. I will not lie to you; some people are upset because of my actions, but I will never consider you a mistake. Your place is here, and you will not be leaving for a long time."

He finishes my hair in silence, and we embrace silently. I rub my eyes as he gathers up the feverfew. "You're tired?" he asks me. I nod.

"Good. I'd imagine so. Let's go back to the village."

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**That's the first chapter. Sorry if the names are a bit confusing. Kuni's gonna get another name later, but how will be a mystery for now.**

**In case you were wondering where I got those herbs, here is the link:** .


	2. Moth's Wings

**Hello again! I wrote another chapter in it! And this one has some Connor as well! As always, enjoy!**

**The title of this chapter is based on the song "Moth's Wings" by Passion Pit. I highly recommend you give it a listen!**

**I don't own anything in Assassin's Creed, just my OC's**

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_September 16__th__, 1764_

Three years had passed since I had first gone to the Highpoint with my father. Over those seasons, the colonists spread even farther north towards our village. Sometimes, we could see them on the opposite lakeshore, looking and pointing across with their funny clothing and pale skin. The men of our village grew subtly more violent with each day; frustrated that the settlers were coming so close to the village. But, under the wise words of Methoataske's mother, we avoided any open hostility. Barely. Tensions were high between those who supported our clan mother and the ones who didn't, and fights broke out often.

Over those times, I had changed as well. I grew taller, and more willing to go into the forests with my father whenever he collected herbs. It was the only time we got to spend any time together those days, and I enjoyed the conversations we had together. When I turned seven, my father talked more often about my mother. He told her that her name was Anne, and how she had deep brown hair and eyes the color of moss. He said that she had been born in the new world, like I had, and moved north to our lands when her family decided it was time for her to betroth. But she met my father instead of finding another colonist. I was unexpected, but nonetheless welcomed.

"If she had met you, Kuni, she would have loved you," my father told me one spring morning, "she would have wrapped you up into her arms and taken you home with her. Anne saw with her heart, and not her eyes, and that was the most special thing about her. I hope you learn to do the same, little one."

I gradually grew less afraid of the forest as the years wore on, but more curious about it. Our lands could stretch for miles, and I felt as though I would walk for as long as I could live and not even cover half the territory. As I grew, my father led me farther and farther away from the lake, showing me obvious landmarks to help me find my way if I would ever get lost. My memory for herbs grew sharper; my knowledge about their locations were etched into my mind. Eventually, when his services were more needed in our longhouse, father would send me off to fetch them, first with another warrior, then by myself. I would not be ashamed to admit that I was nervous the first few times on my own, but I became more comfortable with my surroundings as time wore on. Methoataske fashioned a pair of deerskin shoes for long travel. I learned what plants were edible, and how to harvest them. I could be out for an entire day, and I slowly found myself preferring to be on my own, where there were no hostile stares at me because my skin was one shade paler than my peers.

I had only followed the path of the setting sun, east to west. I had not been north yet. But that changed today.

My father was tending to a young boy who had fallen out of a tree on his first time tree climbing. There was a long gash in his arm deep enough for mice to nest in for the winter. After seeing numerous wounds such as these, the bloody gash didn't unnerve me. What did was his face; pale and wide-eyed. Father had already given him herbs for the shock, but there weren't enough left to treat it. Cursing under his breath, my father turned to me.

"Kuni, you must go to the valley in the north, past the LakeRock. Thyme grows there and it is the only cure for shock that I know of. It grows by the rivers near their village, where the rushing water constantly splashes water upon the banks. You must go and fetch some."

That catches me by surprise. I've never been to the north before. I didn't even know if there was a way around the LakeRock. And if I was caught, I could be in serious trouble with both tribes. But without thyme, this child could die from shock, or infection could set in first and speed his fate along faster. I steel up my courage. "How far?"

"Not very. The river is shallow there. You must come back by the time the sun sets."

"Will I get caught?"

"Not if you are careful."

My father certainly seems to have faith in me. I take a deep breath, and I hope the spirits can guide me quickly. "I won't be long."

"Good luck." My father finishes. I walk casually out of our longhouse, out of the village, and set off towards the LakeRock. I don't know if I have to climb it, or if there is a way around. But my father sounded extremely certain of the location of the thyme, and it grew in the valley. Perhaps there _was_ a way around. One thing was for sure, if I had to climb, the journey was over before it can even begin.

I found myself drifting to the right of the LakeRock. Going to the left would take too long, I figured. After what seemed like a lifetime of walking, I come across deer tracks in the soft earth. They are recent, judging by the depth in the soil.

_If these tracks are heading south, then they must have started from the north. The valley entrance must be close by_.

I follow the tracks, losing them after a while. In time, my patience is rewarded when I find a large gap between the LakeRock and a smaller hill. The ground is worn away from animals and possibly people, and the tips of trees are visible from where I'm standing. This tells me that there will be a bit of a drop at the start of the valley.

I clamber over rocks as I enter, and begin my descent into unfamiliar territory. Trees stretch out from all over, similar to my home, but the air is filled with tension. Birds don't sing, and the animals are more skittish than usual. I find myself unable to relax as I go deeper in. When I enter a small dirt clearing, paranoia sets in. _What if I'm discovered? Will they shoot me? Maybe I should have worn brighter clothes so they don't think I'm an animal. Oh this is really, really bad._

My thoughts were dismissed almost immediately at the sound of footsteps. Large heavy footsteps: those of men. They were coming towards me, and I begin to panic. I close my eyes as I dive to the ground, praying that they may think I look like a mud puddle in my brown clothes and not notice me. But my fall is cushioned. I've landed in a large clump of ferns. A rabbit squeals and runs into the open. Its small life is silenced quickly as an arrow flies out of the trees with impossible speed and goes through where I supposed was the rabbit's stomach. My eyes grow wide as it fidgets, collapses, and dies

My heart nearly stops as four large men wander into the clearing. They were even larger than the warrior men in my tribe; broad shouldered and angry looking. Two of them have shaved their heads, but the others have two long braids across their shoulders, similar to my father and me. They dress in deerskin, and they hold bows and daggers. One of them has a tomahawk. They stop, speaking to each other in hushed voices in a language I don't understand. One of them points vaguely in the direction of the ferns, and I could tell that they were wondering what disturbed the rabbit. To my relief, they drop the argument after a while, the tomahawk carrying one picks up the rabbit, and they disappear the way I came. I breathe again and climb out of my hiding spot.

I set off in the direction the four men came, diving into the bushes whenever I hear a noise, but I never see another human again. I see a fox for the first time in my life, its reddish pelt vibrant among the green foliage. And it was at that moment when I retracted my previous thought and was glad for the earthy colors of my dress.

Eventually, I see smoke rising through the treetops, and I follow it. The path I chose to follow leads me right to the entrance of this village, and I hide behind a tree to observe it. It's very similar to ours, almost identical even. The walls on the outside mimic the ones our tribe has, and they are even located along a lake, although that lake is much larger than ours.

The sound of running water diverts my attention. To my right, I infer that the lake must not be the main and only source of water. Something must feed into it. It must be those rivers where the thyme grows.

I turn away from the valley village and walk until the trees begin to clear and the ground becomes stepper. Rivers cut through the right side of the valley, carving out a path between two cliffs to the east. Small strips of land divide them. Trees are scarce here, and I will need to be fast in order to get the thyme without being caught.

But before I can devise a plan, a scream makes me look towards the center of the rivers.

In the center is a boy, no older than me, with dark shaggy hair and slightly bloody clothes. He seems terrified, and I could see why. A large black animal, bigger than anything I've ever seen, was rearing up on its legs and brandishing its paws at the young boy. It lets out a roar and the boy yelps again. We were too far away from the village for anyone to hear us. He was on his own.

I don't know what compels me to do so, but I leap into the river. I figured that if it finished off the boy, it would be after me next.

It's shallow, like my father said it would be. I struggle a bit upstream, away from the brawl, and clamber on a large rock in the river, high enough to use as a sanctuary. There are enough purchases in the rock for me to climb it, and I'm up in no time. When I reach the top, I stand and call out to the boy. I wave my arms, anything to get his attention.

He turns around and sees me. When he does, he races towards me and scrambles up ungracefully to stand on the boulder. The animal lumbers over, but like I suspected, the rock is too tall for it to climb. Disappointed, it snorts and begins to lumber upstream with a lurching gait. The boy looks as terrified as I feel, and I can't blame him. His cheek is bleeding, and he quivers slightly.

"Are you ok?" I ask him. He looks at me and cocks his head, his look of fear replaced with one of confusion. I suddenly remember the four men in the forest, and how they spoke a different language. He must speak the same one they were speaking, and I didn't know it. That left me with one other option.

I ask again, this time in English. "Are you ok?"

This time, he nods. "Yes"

I glance back at the way I came. His village at this point is a bunch of brown a far ways from here. "Why are you out here?"

"I wanted to try and climb a tree." He replies, not looking at me.

Vague, but I guess it's an answer. It didn't explain what that animal was, or why it attacked him.

The boy looks at me now. "That was a bear" he says, as if reading my thoughts. "I fell out of the tree and onto its back."

"You are hurt." I tell him. The boy touches his hand to his cheek, as if he didn't realize it was cut. It comes back red. "Would you like me to help you?"

"No thank you." He replies. "My healer will see to it."

I begin to gather my thoughts, reminding myself that I needed to find the thyme and get out before anyone else could find me in this territory. Besides, I couldn't let this boy know what I intended to do. I jumped off the rock and into the stream.

"You are not from my village. Where did you come from?"

His question stops me. If I answer with the whole truth, he will be angry for sure. So I avoid certain things as I respond. "I am from over that mountain. My village calls that the LakeRock. I got lost. I will be leaving now."

He seemed satisfied with my answer, to my relief. But one more thing holds me back. Feeling sheepish, I ask "What is your name?"

He blinks. Maybe with surprise, maybe not. "Ratonhnhaké:ton. What is yours?"

"Kunishoka"

He smiles for a brief second. The smile seemed to illuminate his entire face. "Good-bye, Kunishoka. And thank you." And with that he jumps from the rocks and trudges through the river towards his village.

The rest of my journey passed without any trouble. I found the thyme not far from where I found Ratonhnhaké:ton, and was able to get out of the valley and back to the village before the sun fell without any more interference. The trip back was a daze, it seems. When I returned with the herbs, my father questioned me about what I had seen. I responded truthfully. Mostly. I avoided telling him about what happened at the river. The boy under my father's care was treated, and slept soundly by the time that night fell. And as I lay on the ground and watched my father fall asleep, I kept thinking about Ratonhnhaké:ton. Because his skin was the same color as mine.

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**I hope these chapters are long enough. My minimum is about 2,000 per chapter, so we'll see how long I can keep going in terms of ideas.**

**Since the link for the herbs in the last chapter didn't show up, the list is on a website called "Legends of America." Go to the native american section and you'll find it.**


	3. Vitality

**Thank you for the reviews and favorites! I'm not afraid to admit that the last two chapters were dreadful , and I commend you for getting through them. Trying to write from a eight year old's perspective is hard. These will hopefully be better as Kuni gets older and more articulate in English. **

**I'm quite proud of the writing in the chapter. Like always I hope you enjoy and I don't own anything in Assassin's Creed except my OCs**

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_November 6__th__, 1764_

After my chance encounter with Ratonhnhaké:ton, I learned that memories are a funny thing. Some events exit the mind fast. Thoughts often pass in front of your eyes, but never seems to linger. Some stay longer, yet vanish like the reflections in moving water after some time. And other memories stay with you forever. For Example, my father's memories of my mother seems to cause him more pain as each day passes: possibly due to the ever increasing amount of colonists on our lakeshore and the rising tensions of our tribe mates; furious with their intrusion and frustrated still when we do nothing to act. My memories of my first visit to the Highpoint are as sharp as if they happened yesterday, seeing the lake and our territory as a whole for the first time under a setting sun. Perhaps it needs to be special for a memory to truly be a memory. And that's why the memories of my adventures to the lands past the LakeRock slowly became less important to me.

True, the memories of getting the thyme and wandering through unfamiliar territory and nearly getting discovered by different tribe men and saving Ratonhnhaké:ton weren't necessarily forgotten. They just became dull, like unsharpened flint for a hunting knife. The northern tribe, whom Methoataske told me were called the Mohawks, never came into our village to ask about a little girl who saved one of their children, and I could only assume that Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't tell anyone about me. I was grateful for that, to say that least.

Maybe my adventure gradually grew less prominent as more important events reared their heads. The more settlers that came, the more unsettled our tribe became. Sometimes they would come riding large animals that my father would call horses. Other times, they would arrive in large open baskets tied to the horses. As the months wore on, they would stay on the opposite lakeshore for days at a time. They brought their fire sticks, some large and some small, and hunted in the woods opposite the lake. We eventually got used to the large bangs that they made, which could be heard all the way across the lake and from halfway across our hunting grounds.

The presence of the colonists on the lakeshore has presented problems for my father. We are running short on certain herbs that only grow at the Highpoint, and getting there without being caught is close to impossible. We scavenge our other supplies as replacements, but they aren't nearly as strong as the herbs they replace. Winter is coming, and winter brings sickness. We need stronger herbs or many will die of fevers and infection this winter. The colonists will surely leave in the winter, but by then, all the plants will be dead and useless.

During the night, I dreamt that I was in a canoe on a wide body of water. I am dressed in clothes that are not my own, my hair is out of my braids, and my body aches as though it has been beaten heavily. My tiny boat rocked fiercely against a storm, and the thunder sounded oddly like the fire sticks of the colonists on the lakeshore. The winds blow loudly, whispering my name through the crashing waves. The rough water pushes me still, harder this time, and my eyes snap open to the sound of my father. His hand is rocking me back and forth gently, and he whispers my name softly.

"Wake up, Kunishoka. Please wake up."

I sit groggily and rub my eyes. It is not even light yet, and the air smells like it has rained. I yawn as I stand unsteadily on my legs, and my father offers his hand for support, which I accept.

"Father, why are you awake? It is the dead of night. And why wake me up? What's going on?"

My father's eyes twinkle with pleasure in the half-light. "It rained last night, Kuni, and I woke up to this fog. If we canoe across the lake, we will avoid the sights of the colonists. I woke you up because this may be our only chance to gather herbs before the winter, and there will be many. You will still come, I assume?" I nod, still half asleep.

As we walk out of the longhouse to the middle of the village, my father squeezes my hand tighter. There is a slight fog here, but it is still clear enough that I can see the embers of the dying fires in the center. We walk out of our village and into the forest. I'm grateful for my father's hand as the fog becomes gradually denser. His tight grip on my hand ensures that we both know where the other is. Our journey takes a while. What would be a short walk is delayed by the tripping over brambles and running into trees. But we help each other, and move at each other pace. My heart begins to beat fast, and I can see my father's face crinkle with worry as we near the lakeshore. We may not get another chance to gather healing medicine before the weather turns.

We eventually make it to the edge of the lake. After some careful searching, we find the canoes that are carefully hidden under large tree branches at the foot of the forest. We pull one out and my father begins to paddle. One long stroke per side. Left, then right, then left again, then right again. We glide silently over the dark green water, and reach the opposite shore in no time. We abandon our canoe and search for the path up to the Highpoint.

I glance up at my father. "Should we hide our canoes like we did over at the other side of the lake?" I whisper to him.

"No," my father hisses back. "We will not be gone long. We shall leave before these people even wake up.

The sound of an animal makes me start. It sounds like a whine, but it is defiantly not from a human. I'm about to run for the trees when my father stops me. He smiles reassuringly. "No need to be startled, young one. It's just a horse. One of them can probably hear us. Or smell us. But they are gentle creatures. They won't hurt people."

I want to ask how my father knew so much about animals that no one else knew about, but the answer comes to be before I can bother him with it.

The incident with the horse made me wide awake, to say the least. We eventually find the path through the trees and begin our assent up the Cliffside. It is still slow work, constantly looking down to make sure that we are indeed on the right path, and making sure that neither one of us walks too close to the edge on the left side. We are about halfway up the mountain when my father freezes. He glances up the hill, and I can hear what made him stop so suddenly. The fog makes it almost impossible to see, but it does not soften the sounds of our surroundings. A loud bang, certainly caused by one of the settler's fire sticks, pierces through the air. And it was _very _close by.

I have never seen my father so startled. The color drains from his face in a matter of heartbeats. He glances around wildly, then he rubs the back of his neck, cursing softly yet violently. He starts to go to the left, stops, curses again, and tugs me over to the right side of the path before he finds a clump of dense bracken that I assume satisfies his needs. I'm instructed to sit, and I obey. I catch the panic in his voice as he hisses to me.

"Listen to me, Kunishoka. There has been a change of plans. Whatever you do, don't leave the ferns. Do you understand? Those men are not going to take kindly to us walking around here."

I begin to protest. 'But, this is our territory. Why would they be angry with us?"

"This is not the time to explain!" My father's dark skin is flushed, and his brown eyes dart deep into the trees. He begins to tug at his hair. "All you have to know is that these men are dangerous. And they will not stay their hand for a little child such as you. Stay hidden, and I will come back for you when I have the herbs we need. Do you understand me?"

Part of me doesn't understand. Part of me wants to talk back to my father and trust my own instincts. But I submissively nod. As I do, some of the color comes back to his face.

"Take care. I love you, and _don't_ leave this spot. I'll be back soon." With that, he backed away through the forests and into the fog. I take a deep breath and press myself to the earth, trying my best to cover myself with ferns and shrubs.

Surely this would be easy? If four men couldn't find me in bright daylight, then I would have nothing to worry about with the fog for protection, right?

I wait for a long time, it seems, trying to keep myself entertained as the moments pass. The fog does not relent: if anything it grows thicker until the trees and foliage around me are merely shadows. I draw circles in the wet soil with my fingers, I fiddle with my hair, I listen for the sounds of birds and other animals, and I straighten my deerskin dress. My father hasn't come back for me yet by the time thin light penetrates through the mist, and I sense dawn fast approaching.

As I'm about to stand and look for my father on my own, something rustling to my left makes my hairs stand on end. A large snort, the clomping of a large animal, and annoyed voices. I stop what I'm doing, which was poking at the ground with a stray stick, and peer out through the bracken. I can't see actual detail, but the dim light of the eastern sun illuminates the shadows of the convoy and I let out a horrified gasp.

Seven men at least walk by me first, trampling through the undergrowth and sending birds and animals alike running past, squealing and squawking with what could only be terror. Their pace is slow to accommodate a horse's slow speed. One horse appears, then another, and another. They all appear to be pulling a basket of some sort. But these baskets were nothing like the ones the settlers came in. They were small, and square, and hollow looking. More men soon follow. All the men I see, or can't see, carry the shadows of large, narrow poles, and I realize that they were the fire sticks. These must have been the same men that fired and caused my father so much panic. They all have similar looking hats, and bundles are visible on their backs. It takes me no time at all to realize that these were not the same settlers on the lakeshore. They seem to belong to some part of a tribe of their own. As they pass by, one of them speaks a rough sounding English to his companion.

" Ya reckon we got enough? We bet'her get paid good money for this job."

I craned my head just high enough to see above my hiding spot.

His companion turns his head. "Violent job, right? Not meh favorite, but it pays well. Didn't get as many as I 'oped. Nasty little suckers, they are. 'ard to round up. Ain't no match for these, though, eh?' He finishes, holding out his fire stick. "Downed two of 'em with this beauty."

A man up front turned his head and hissed at the both of them to be quiet, and they fell silent.

What could they have been hunting? Deer possibly. Perhaps stocking up for the winter. As I pondered this, my arm slipped out from under me, and I fell onto the ground. Hard. The stick I was playing with snaps and the fall sends ripples through the ferns. This time, I didn't have any animal to bail me out. Someone surely had heard me. I crossed my arms over my head and hoped for the worst, but nothing happened. The men kept marching onwards down the hill and I realized with a jolt that they were heading to the villages of the colonists. Maybe even farther.

I was so intent on the front of the travelers that I did not notice the shadow of my father coming towards me through the fog. I turned my head just as he stopped in front of my bushes and held out his hand. I breathed a sigh of relief. Whoever these men were; they were clearly not very nice.

"Are you ready?" he asked me in an oddly deep voice. I nodded.

As I reached for his hand, I noticed how pale it was. Then I noticed the long, wooden pole in the opposite hand, then I noticed the hat on his head.

As the man gripped his fire stick with two hands, I could only think one thing. _This man is not my father._

The end of his fire stick came down hard on my head, and blackness began to darken my vision. Before I lost consciousness, the man cried out in a voice filled with triumph. "I found 'nother one, you guys!"

Then the world spun, I fell down, and everything turned black.

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I awoke sometime later to complete darkness and to a pounding near my right eye. It was dreadfully cold. My tummy ached from hunger. We were moving forward slowly. At first I wondered if I was still passed out, but then I felt around and my hands touched the wooden walls of my basket. Expect it wasn't a basket. The walls were solid and there a top. The same ones I had seen the horses pull before I was attacked. The complete darkness made me panic on the inside, and soon enough, I was pounding on the side of the walls, begging in my native language to be let out. Tears streamed down my face as I screamed and scratched on the walls of my prison. This continued for some time, until a long banging on the other side of the wall made me jump back and recoil in fright. But this box is too small for my scramble backwards, and I hit the back of my head hard on the other wall. As I do, a deep manly voice hiss at me from the other side.

"Quiet, you savage. Want me to fire meh musket at your cart?

I don't answer. I'm too frightened.

"No? Then stop your whining!"

His words made me curl up into a ball in the corner of my so called "cart". I continued to cry, this time silently, as we continued to move forward. I felt a thin, raggedy blanket with my bare toes, and huddled in it for warmth. Realizations hit me like a rockslide. I was kidnapped. By men who had kidnapped other people. I had no idea where I was heading, and I had no idea if my father was safe or not. The pain in the back of my head, coupled with the ache in the front of my head, gave me a splitting headache, and I wished I had some honeysuckle for the pain. It was then that I realized that, along with having no idea where I was going, I didn't know where I was period. I wanted to believe that I had only been out a day, possibly less, but the stabbing pains in my stomach told me that it had been longer than that.

My hair has come out of its braids, and I can feel mud and burs caked into it. I made an attempt to untangle my hair, but it was no use. My tummy growled even louder now, but I resisted begging for food. It was awfully cramped in here, and I soon found myself pushing on the walls of my cart with my legs in a futile attempt to widen them. I eventually curled back up into a ball in the corner and began to sob again. No one bothered me this time, but the silence was not welcoming.

Eventually, we halted. I began to knock again at the sides of the cart before the top opened up slightly. The brightness of the outside made my eyes hurt, and I cried out and covered my eyes. While I did so, I heard something plop onto the ground. But I refused to close my eyes until the hatch was closed. When it finally did, I scrambled around for whatever was dropped into my prison and found something large and, to my undying relief, edible. I bit into the tip and recognized the taste of carrot. It was gone far too quickly, and I patiently waited for more. But the cart commenced the moving again, and I could hear laughing outside, before a dreadful sound of wood on wood filled my ears.

"Bet'her not ask for any more, savage. 'Cause that's all you'll be gettin'- blast. Looks like a storm's blowing in."

I could hear the laughter from the other men, but whether it was about the man's inability to pay attention, or about me, I didn't know. All I knew was that I was unlikely to survive this trip, let alone get back home. I should have insisted on going with my father instead of hiding in the bushes like a cowardly squirrel. What if he had been shot with one of the fire sticks? What if he didn't get any herbs and the tribe died this winter. What if he died and there was no one to replace him? What if I _do _die before I get home?

The crying continues for a long time before I slowly find myself hunched onto the floor. I clutch the blanket harder and try to fall asleep when the rain begins to pound its cruel lullaby onto my cage, as I travel farther and farther into the unknown.

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**Yes, they are slave traders. God knows when I'll be able to update, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter fairly better then the previous ones.**

**I don't mean to pry, but if you have anything to say that could make my writing any better, please tell me in the reviews! Anything would be appreciated and I promise to try my hardest. This isn't a plea for comments or praise, just a writer trying to improve her writing.**

**Until Next Time, everyone!**


	4. Kings

**Uh, this chapter took forever to right, but at least this is the last time we see Kuni/Ava as a young child! Thank you again for all your kind follows and favorites. Ad I apologize in advance that this chapter is so long.**

**Like always, I don't own Assassin's Creed, but my OC's I do own. Please enjoy!**

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_November 19__th__, 1764_

As the days wore on, an order was quickly established. We moved slowly and constantly. Food was served once every two days day and in meager portions. Water was given to us once a day in the form of hard shelled water skins that were called canteens, consisting of hardly a mouthful. If you asked for more, the men, who called themselves soldiers, banged on the sides with their fists and weapons, which I learned were called muskets, threatening you until you fell silent or apologized. Continued pleas, as one woman did two days after my capture, and the convoy would stop as you were dragged out and beaten. And the worst part was that the rest of us were forced to listen as the Englishmen thrashed the poor woman. Huddled in the darkness as her screams mingled with the laughter of her tormenters, unable to raise a finger to help. We were allowed to relive ourselves once every few days. I wondered if the others captured would want to escape when we were finally let out, but extreme steps were taken to prevent this. We were separated, unable to see or communicate each other. You were assaulted if you spoke in another language. Muskets were pointed at your back the entire time. One wrong move, and you were killed on sight. On the eighth day, I heard a yell, then loud blast from the front of the party. Some of the men left to see what the commotion was, and the last thing I heard was the sound of blunt instruments hitting something, and desperate moans of pain. As I was ushered back into my cart, everyone was forced to glance at the path ahead; the dark specks of blood next to a patch of overturned earth prominently displayed. In my prison, I prayed to the spirits for the safe arrival of another tribesmen, but the words felt hollow and useless under my breath. I stopped counting the days after that.

Our meals consisted of disgusting, rotting fruits and vegetables and meager supplies of water unable to cure a parched mouth. Hardly filling, but we had realized the price we had to pay if we asked for more. I ate the parts of my meals I could tell weren't too nasty; ingesting anything spoiled would result in stomach problems and disease, food poisoning even. I could almost smell the sickness each time we were brought out to relive ourselves, and it only got worse as the weather turned for the worse. As it was predicted, the weather only got colder as we travelled farther, and I fell victim to sickness myself during the first snowfall. My ragged blanket and thin clothes could not keep me warm during the long nights, and my cart's total darkness allowed no warm sunlight to penetrate. I shivered constantly, and I slept most of the day as my unknown disease slowly began to overwhelm me.

My hatred for the world as it was grew stronger as time passed. I hated the soldiers that seemed to enjoy themselves as my life slowly ebbed away. I hated the circumstances that caused my capture. I hated the winter for brining incurable sicknesses to these poor trapped people. But most of all, I hated the spirits for not helping me. I resented that beings so powerful would allow one of their children to be taken to who knows where. Perhaps it was because my mother was a colonist? How could she share blood with these cruel monsters? Ones that bear her own flesh and blood?

But for whatever reason, I couldn't resent my own mother. I was barely able to convince myself that none of this was her fault: that she didn't have any idea that her own daughter was trapped, scared and sick, in a small box by her own people. That the man who loved her throughout all of these years was possibly dead and unable to care for his friends. I couldn't judge a person I had never met.

However, my anger for the spirits burned strong like fire. After I prayed for the deliverance of that one man, I didn't bother with praying again.

My dreams, once so vivid with colors and sounds, grew dull and dark. There were times that I couldn't tell the difference between consciousness and unconsciousness. My stomach concaved so much that it hurt. My tongue felt like as dry as the sands on the lakeshore. I found it hard to stay awake. I cried until tears refused to fall. I didn't know where I was going, and I didn't know when my journey will end.

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I was awoken from a particularly dark dream to a slightly bright light shining in my eyes. One of the guards must be opening the hatch on the top of the cart. But it is not yet the afternoon yet, and we were given food yesterday. I force my eyes open as a gloved hand drops a bundle into my cell, then closes the hatch.

"Put those on. And be ready to get out." He growls through the wooden walls.

I huddle in my blanket for a few more heartbeats before getting up. I paw through the bundle, disappointed to not find anything in it but clothes. In fact, from what I can tell, there is only a shirt and a pair of pants tied by a sash, and no shoes. These are clothes a boy or man would wear, but defiantly not a woman, but it remains a thought. Blindly, I dress. I slip out of my smelly and ragged dress: I've been waiting to get out of that thing for a while anyways. I pull the shirt over my head and step into the pants, finishing the outfit by tying the sash around my bony waist. It's a complete mishmash: the shirt is too large, the pants too short, but I keep my words to myself like always.

I don't wait long before the hatch at the back is opened, and I'm momentarily blinded by the sun facing directly at my face. I can't regain my vision before heavy metal bindings are hitched around my ankles and wrists, lose enough to walk but tight enough so I can't run away. I'm then pulled from my prison and shoved onto the cold earth. I can't feel any snow, and I wonder if it has melted away. One of the guards snarls at me to fix my hair, and I fumble with the tangled curls absentmindedly. My sash, which I can see is dark red, trails on the ground, and I hastily retie it four times again before anyone can see me. My eyes adjust to the light as the soldiers force me and the others into a row, and I'm greeted with great confusion.

There are walls in the distance, but made of stone instead of wood like I'm used to. The paths are also made of stone, rough and bumpy against my calloused feet. Snow has been brushed away from them and piled onto the edges. There are longhouses here lined neatly in rows. They look strange compared to my homes. They are colored many different colors, and there are holes cut out and filled with glass. Hardly any vegetation grows here. As we march through the streets, I as a tree here, a bush there, but everything is rather sparse. Men and women dress in many different colors as well. They wear extra layers to protect from the cold, and give us curious stares as we are lead away. Smoke rises from the tops of houses, and the smell of burning meat fills the air. Nearby, I can hear the muffled sounds of voices. Some of the men in front of me mutter to each other, confused, and they earn a smack over the head with the musket. The bindings on my hands and feet begin to ache, but I hold my tongue.

We round a corner, and I am introduced to another grievous sight. The source of the noise is a large gathering of men and women are in what I assume to be the village center. A large wooden platform of some kind is easily seen, and below at the base are a couple of men and women with skin even darker than mine. The crowd parts as the soldiers lead us on to where a couple of men argue over a piece of paper. Our captors pull them aside and talk in hushed voices. Afterword's, we are led again to the bottom of the platform, forcing us in between the dark skinned people as the crowd turns and looks at us. One of the men calls out to his companions, "That's the last of 'em! Let 'em come and see what they're getting."

At once, and all at one time, the crowds of people come at us, poking and prodding with curious hands. Some of them write on pieces of paper, and others tell their observations to their companions. They have no sense of personal space, and they examine _every_ part they can find.

At first, my other tribesmen and I resist, glaring and snapping at anyone who dares to come near. Those who look at us stare disapprovingly, and I feel quite proud of myself until I am shoved from my left and see the man who has done so. His face bares the signs of a hard life: it is scarred and wrinkled. He has hair on his face that is short and gray, as is his hair, clashing oddly with his dark complexion. His eyes were dark and as sharp as flint. I noticed how has stayed perfectly still while he is examined; allowing people to hold up his chin and feel his arms for any signs of muscle.

Sighing inwardly, I know what he is trying to tell me. I loosen my body and let people come near me. They feel my arms, legs, and look at my face. It all fells extremely uncomfortable, and I almost regret listening to the man. Some of the others notice my behavior and copy, mostly women. But the rest of the natives and some of the other darker skins continue to show defiance.

After every person has made their observations, the men whom we were brought to gather together and talk continually under their breath. When they finish, they call more soldiers to lead the ones that resisted away, and nothing happens for a while as they are lined up and taken around the corner and out of the village center. But then, we hear the unmistakable sound of musket fire.

Several of the men and women stifle screams, some break into tears, one women falls to her knees and begins what I assume is some sort of prayer. The man to my left flashes me a look that says "I told you so." I would be annoyed if the shock from the killing hadn't taken over my body. I had been that close to dead! If I had resisted for any longer, my body would be thrown into the ground like that one unfortunate soul on our journey so long ago. I flash the man a grateful look, and he nods back as the soldiers return.

Now, the leader of this whole event calls for the attention of the crowd. He speaks for a little while, discussing foreign words that I do not understand. Then, one by one, each person on line is forced up by the soldiers onto the platform next to the man. Then, he speaks to the entire crowd, stating name, age and what the dark skinned human does in forms of 'service'. The ones below brandish pieces of paper and call out loudly until the leader points into the crowd. That person promptly leads the dark skinned man or woman away. Looks of horror show on the face of all of my companions as, one by one, we are forced up onto the platform, and before I know it, it's my turn.

As I am lead up, I hear the whispers of the crowd. From what I've seen, I am the youngest here, and one of the palest. With the leader at my ear, I am forced to listen as he calls out my supposed information to the masses of people waiting in anticipation for the presentation to continue, and I feel myself shrivel inside of myself as he does.

"The name of this one is Ava! Born into the Shawnee tribe of Indians, she was saved by a group of passing soldiers, and agreed to be taken here to our fair town to volunteer her services. She's young, but strong, she can serve as a great housewife, and can up bring your children if you have any. May be able to take care of the horses! She might be able to work in the fields as well! This may be the only chance you get to have a worker this young! Will there be any takers?"

I want to burst into tears as the voices raise once again, combining into one large voice that threatens to swamp me. I look down as the man speaks repeats out loud the words they speak. "Do I hear twenty pounds? Twenty three pounds? Twenty six pound- oh! Forty pounds!? Going once, going twice…sold! To Mrs. Heathrow! Forty pounds for young Ava here!"

I am forced down the stairs again to be greeted by the one they call Mrs. Heathrow. I hold my head down as I trudge down the stairs. My back is thrust forward by one of the soldiers, and I fall flat on my face as I trip over my bindings. I can hear a woman scolding harshly before a firm hand grasps my arm and helps me up. The hand leads me away from the middle of the crowds to the back. I force my head up when I remember that they would be calling up the man to my left, the same one who helped me not moments before.

I had missed his speech, but I see how he stands, firm and intimidating, as voices go up once again brandishing those pounds. But they are fewer than there were for me, and the price is not higher than fifty five pounds. He is about so sell when, to my surprise, I see a hand next to me shoot up and cry out "Sixty five pounds!"

"Going once, going twice…sold! To Mrs. Heathrow again! Two in a row!"

Some people let out admiring noises as I follow Mrs. Heathrow to greet the man. He glances at me, and I him, and he nods. It was at this moment when I got my first glance of this woman who had gathered the two of us together.

She was old, and wearing expensive looking clothing. Her face was almost as wrinkled as the man she had collected, and I noticed that when she walked, she had a slight limp. Her hair was gray, almost white, and her face was gathered up into a smile that made the creases near her mouth more prominent. She wore a dress the color of violets, and a white hat that most of the women wore. Casually, Mrs. Heathrow waved her gloved hand and motioned the both of us away, away from the crowd and around the corner, slowing down to accommodate our slow pace. As we rounded the corner, she led us to a cart driven by two horses and a young white male, dressed in furs while polishing a musket. He greeted us with a sneer and a spit into the street and promptly turned away.

When we reached the cart, Mrs. Heathrow turned to us. She spoke with a light voice, but it was also laced with heavy English as she pulled a metal object out of her dress pocket.

"Listen please. I'm going to unlock your shackles with the key the guards gave me. When I do, please climb into the cart, and we will head back to the plantation. Do you understand me?" We both nod.

The boy sitting in the cart spoke for the first time. "If they don't. I'll shoot 'em before they can get five steps." With that, he cocked the musket and placed it onto his shoulder. Mrs. Heathrow's face filled with one of disgust and displeasure.

"Trevor, that's terrible! Show some manners, you ungrateful child!" With that, she unlocked our bindings, and they fell away with a satisfying clang. I rubbed my aching wrists as I noticed the old man climb submissively into the back of the cart, shooting the boy a look of pure venom before turning his back on him. I hesitated briefly before joining him in the back. Then I heard the reigns snap, and we were moving again.

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It was far better to be out in the sunlight then in a dark box, I soon realized. The winds were cold, but at least there was sunlight. I could feel myself recovering slightly from the sickness I suffered from on the journey here. Unfortunately, there was no food or drink, but that could be a problem for another time.

My companion hadn't spoken a word to me this entire time. We had been traveling for ages, passing fields many sizes bigger than the ones at the lake. People worked in the fields, wiping their brows as they picked whatever was growing. Mrs. Heathrow and Trevor haven't spoken either, and at last, the silence is unbearable. I break it.

"Um. I-, t-thank you for… saving my life."

The man snorts. "It's common sense that you behave at these things." His voice is rasping and cracked, like he hadn't used it for seasons. "Most people know better than to bite a white man. Especially a white man with money. You were lucky they took pity on you. That _I _took pity on you."

His words are harsh, and although I realize the truth in them, it doesn't make me any less angry. I'm about to retaliate when I hear his hacking laugh.

"Don't be offended by my words, _cuivre_. It is just the words of a man who has seen too much. But I appreciate your thanks. Not many reasons to be happy, with what will happen to us. My name is Samuel, by the way."

"My name is Kunishoka."

I can feel his eyes bore into me, and I turn my head in embarrassment when he speaks again. "That's not what the trader said on the scaffold. He called you Ava."

"I don't know what 'Ava' is. That is not my name."

"It is now." Samuel speaks grimly. "Folks 'round here aren't going to like you calling yourself Kuni- whatever. Too…different. And different is not good. Ava is not a bad name. I've certainly heard worse. I suggest you stick with it."

I rub my wrists, which have already begun to welt. It I can't agree with a name, maybe I can figure out where we are going.

"What is going to happen to us, Samuel?"

The old man's eyes darken to blackness at the mention. "They're going to work us, Ava. Work us in the fields like those poor fellows out there. Plantations are not something to be excited about. These people paid good money for us, and now we are slaves. We are going to work until we can't work anymore, and then they are going to put us out of our misery."

"I- I do not understand. Why would they do this?"

"Because they are too lazy to do their own work themselves! They force us to cultivate large fields and live our entire lives in cramped houses, using us for god knows what! We get no pay, no recognition, and to stay there until they waste away our petty lives with overworking and starvation! But what would you know? You're just a naïve little child."

Samuel bows his head in defeat. I feel the annoyance that burned earlier fade away into sympathy. Some of the other Shawnee tribes, Methoataske had told me, raided other villages and took slaves from those they had conquered. But that practice never extended to our tribe, where our village's hunting grounds were large enough to sustain us and the other tribes didn't bother with anyone else.

Yet, something about Samuel's defensive attitude surprises me. He only seems like a man who has seen his share of life and didn't like the outcome. But before I stop myself, I ask him about it.

"Why do you speak so harshly about slavery?"

I should have suspected the reaction I received. Samuel glares harshly at me and turns his head. My heart breaks for him when he responds simply.

"You will find out for yourself soon enough."

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Samuel and I did not speak for the rest of the journey. In fact, he promptly turned his back on me and stared out at the fields, muttering to himself whenever he saw a group of slaves. Our journey began to turn upwards, and the steeper we went, the more dread began to sink in. Subjecting my life as a slave certainly didn't seem pleasant, from what Samuel had told me, but I also figured that there was more than he was letting on.

The area we were heading to appeared to be widely diverse. Built into the sides of the cliffs we traveled on was farmland, combed through and sprouting evenly with crops. Over on my left, where the cliffs dropped off, was a dense forest not unlike the one at the lake. Birds screeched from overhead, racing out of the trees and over the large body of water that started at the end of the forest. It was _huge_, pooling into a large lake before running through two cliffs to spread even farther out. Samuel catches my staring and answers my unasked questions. "That's the ocean. The Atlantic, specifically. This kind of cove is meant to give ships a supply rest as they travel up and down the coast."

"…Ships?"

"Do you have canoes? Think of ships as much larger canoes."

The path eventually evens out in time to see our destitution, surrounded by open fields. It is a small, sturdy hut, made of wood and smelling like mud. A dark skinned woman dressed in a skirt and rags sweeps the excess dirt away from the entrance. She is clearly pregnant, and her face is contorted with the effort of standing as she goes about her duty. Behind the house is a small cliff, trees brushing up on its steep face to signify the start of the forest. Up the rest of the way on the top of the hill is the largest longhouse I had ever seen. It was so white that it shined in the late afternoon sun, and was bigger than even the houses at the village we were in for the auction.

The horses are commanded to halt and Samuel and I are forced to get out. Trevor glares at us while Mrs. Heathrow talks to the pregnant woman. His stare cuts like knives, and I could tell we were going to not get along. He speaks with pure contempt as he addresses us for the last time.

"Work starts tomorrow. Don't leave this area. Especially you, savage." He points an accusing finger at me. "I know how your kind likes to run around in the woods like wild animals. Enter the forest, and you'll be shot on sight." With that he turns around, Mrs. Heathrow climbs in soon after. The reigns snap, and they set off towards the house on the top of the hill.

Samuel places a hand on my shoulder and guides me up to the women sweeping out front. She pauses her work as we come over.

"You all the new help?" She asks with a strained tone. Samuel and I nod. "Well good. Don't suppose I can be working much longer, what with the baby. What're your names?"

Samuel speaks before I can. "My name is Samuel, and this is Ava. She comes from a tribe of Indians up in the north."

The woman sizes me up before her eyes fall on my hair, which she gasps at.

"Oh hon, your hair looks like a rats nest! Oh, come inside, will fix that up nice and good. My names Jenny, by the way." She finishes in a whirlwind of words to herself, muttering fiercely about the state of my hair. Granted, it was ragged and tangled, so I allow her to place a hand on my shoulder and lead me away from Samuel.

Jenny guides me into the small hut. It smells like dirt and dried grass, which was essentially what it was. There was a thick layer of dirt and muddy snow on the ground, and the blankets covered piles of long dry grass which I assumed would be our beds. A tub of water sits in the corner, next to a spindly chair. The only source of light is a fire, cracking merrily in a black bucket in the center. A hole in the roof lets the smoke out, similar to our longhouses, I realize.

I'm forced into the chair in the corner, and the next thing I know, cold water drenches my head, making me gasp and sputter. Jenny apologizes profusely as she pulls her fingers through my hair in an effort to untangle them. It is slow work, but eventually, I feel her small hands pull it into a large braid in the middle of my head. It is not unlike my former way of two braids which I preferred, but I do not mention anything. Jenny is panting when she finishes, gasping for words. "It's a bit messy…but it should do for now."

I touch it tenderly. It's thick, but sturdy. The hair that was too short to be bunched together falls in my face in large chunks, and I brush them out impatiently. I thank Jenny as Samuel walks in; the latter of whom takes one look at my appearance, and nods before collapsing on the bed, sending grass everywhere. Jenny purses her lips, and leaves, possibly to get her broom.

Instead of following either of them, I sit by the fire, exhausted by today's events. I can feel its heat warm my entire body, and drive away the chill of the outside and the remaining sickness from myself. I can see the sky darken and clouds gather through the smoke hole as the flames begin to die down. It has begun to snow when I climb into a grass-bed besides Samuel's, and the last thing I hear before I pass out is the commencing of his snores.

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**So that's the fourth chapter! In case you were wondering, Ava and Samuel's plantation is somewhere along the coast in Southern Virginia. Location isn't exactly important, but I couldn't find a way to integrate this in the text. (God forbid, right?)**

**I may not be able to update much anymore as school starts and work begins to be more important, but I promise that I will update soon. And the Assassin's will appear in the next chapter! Hooray!**

**Thanks again!**


	5. Lionhearts

**Hello again! Thank you for my first review I feel very honored that someone at least likes my story well enough to say something about it. I plan to study journalism when I get older, and the more writing I do, the better.**

**Because there is another fanfic in this section with the protagonist named Ava, I thought i'd mention that the reason I chose the name Ava is because it's a derivative of Eve, a motif in the game, and possibly derived from the Latin word _Avis_, which means bird. I though it worked well, so I stuck with it.**

**As always, I don't own Assassin's Creed, just my OC's.**

**Please Enjoy!**

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_February 2__nd__, 1773_

_Nine years later_

Samuel snores next to me, as he has done for the past nine years, as I force myself out of my bed. Glances up through the smoke hole tell me that it's just past midnight, and a light snowfall blankets the stove where the fire embers still glow. I swing my feet around to the sides of my bed, grumpily pulling straw out of my hair and collar. My hair is still in a single braid, the loose strands there as well, but cut choppily recently. Jenny mumbles something in her sleep, her arms not far in the reach of her children. Robert and Sarah, nine and six respectively, sleep soundly. Robert's dressing has just started to redden; caused by a long deep gash that would have gotten infected if it weren't for the fact that I had a stash of herbs, planted and stored safely deep in the forests. I rub my eyes and wash my face briefly with water from the basin in the corner. I adjust my breast bindings under my dirty white shirt. From the hay of my bed, I pull out my deerskin shawl. It's not the warmest, but it was sewn my Jenny herself, and she her handy work is the best of all the slaves. It will do well against weather like this, where frostbite was possible if you didn't dress properly. I slip on the shawl before I put on my boots, worn brown leather with a wooden sole, and quietly slip out the door.

The snow is firm, so I don't sink immediately as I go farther from the hut. The footprints I create will be easily covered by the snow that falls. All the lights at the Heathrow manor at the top of the hill are out, and I can barely make out the white paint as the snow starts to pick up. I creep over to the cliff's precipice behind the hut, staring down until I see what I'm looking for. There, sticking out halfway down the cliff, concealed by branches, is a fallen trunk that's managed to wedge itself on the cliff. It's strong and sturdy, and I've been using it to get into the forests for years. As I hang over the edge of the cliff, trying to get a foothold, I hear a small whimper that nearly causes me to fall down and onto my back. I breathe a breath of relief, a cloud of vapor, as I see who it is.

It's one of the dogs that live on the property, Spudder, after the potatoes that we harvest. He's huge, brown fur covers his entire body, and his droopy face looks hopefully at me as half my body hangs over forbidden territory. Spudder's purpose on the plantation is to sniff out trouble and alert anyone if anything is too far out of line. He normally would have lost his head if it weren't for the fact that I fed him any leftover rabbit meat I managed to find after my hunts. He slowly became my secret ally, and none of the other task managers can figure out why he likes me so much. Not that they need to know.

"No, Spud." I hiss softly. "I don't have anything for you." I precede to climb down, being careful to place my feet in the right cracks, as Spudder looks down sadly. It's amazing to see the changes in his expression. "I'll be back." I promise as my feet hit the trunk. I promptly turn around and scurry away with the speed of an eagle.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

I'd been going through these forests since I was eleven, after Jenny had given birth to her second child. Something had gone terribly wrong after Sarah had been brought into the world, and her mother caught a heavy fever that left her bedridden and on the verge of death. Urged on by Samuel, I travelled into the depths of the forests for the first time during the night, avoiding anybody in them and finding the proper herbs for Jenny's aliment. All the slaves had stayed awake, some in tears, some praying, some silent, but all waiting for me to come back with the medicine. Jenny was a mother to everyone, and no one wanted her to die. To the relief of everyone, especially Robert, Jenny's sickness gradually diminished after the first few does; given only at night to not arose the suspicion of Trevor, who became new owner of the plantation.

Trevor, as it turned out, wasn't related to Mrs. Heathrow directly. He was her sister's daughter's son. Young and brash, he had taken over the plantation when Mrs. Heathrow died after my supposed tenth birthday. There was much mystery surrounding her death. Jenny claimed that she died of old age, but the other housemaids were saying that she had showed signs of a sudden decline, too sudden to be natural. Despite this, it was written in the will that Trevor would inherit the property, much to the chagrin of me and the fellow slaves.

Mrs. Heathrow was a kind woman, and though she worked us hard, she didn't strain us out. Trevor was different; for he insisted on meeting his client's demands and more. We work from the dawn until dusk, fed rations that could not sustain thirty slaves for a week, and are punished with lashes if we fail to finish our work.

Like I had predicted, Trevor and I never saw eye to eye. Even though I kept my mouth shut, obeying his every whim, he still tormented me. I was the only slave on the plantation who was from the Native tribes in the north, and that was deemed an excuse to give me "special treatment", as he called it. But it was really just an excuse to fire racial slurs whenever he got the chance, and without any fear of retaliation. "Savage" and "Copperhead" were two common ones.

I remember the first time I got whipped by Trevor very clearly, when I was fourteen. I was sick from ingesting a rotten piece of cornmeal the night before, and collapsed in the sugar cane fields. After I emptied my stomach, I was tied to a post in nothing but a pair of shorts and earned thirty lashes from Trevor himself. After I was tied down, I was done with him, and myself. I spat at his feet, and was met with the whip again. The last whip cut me over the mouth on the right side, just over the lips. It still shows, a reminder to everyone to not disrespect the man in charge. But to me, the scars on my back and face are a constant reminder of my burning hatred for not only Trevor, but for my hatred of all the white men on the plantation.

I leap slightly ungracefully through the trees, snow blinding me as I stop above a small trail in the road. One of the hired guard's stands to the side, musket discarded, fighting to stay awake. I slip over his head easily as I head farther south, heading for the rivers.

After discovering that I needed to travel into the forests in order to survive, I taught myself to balance and climb properly. My father taught me some of the basics on the ground back at the lake, but I only mastered the techniques recently this summer. I could race through the trees with decent speed in the warm nights, but the winter made me move more carefully.

I loved the summer. The land was green and the nights were warm. Prey ran plenty then, and I didn't have to travel through the trees the whole time because there would be no footprints to leave in the snow. In the summer, I was free to bathe in the rivers, wash my hair, and sometimes trim it if I felt it too unruly. Winter didn't grant me the same privileges.

I eventually come to where I want to be, the largest tree on the property. It is an oak, with branches that bend and curve and twist. Almost as thick as two of me, and as high as the manor, it can easily be seem from the slave hut. You can go whichever direction you wish from here, but that is not why I've arrived at this place.

At the top of the tree, a relatively easy climb for a six year climber, I find my weapons for survival hidden in a large knothole: a bow and five arrows, kept in a deerskin pouch since I lack a quiver, and a flint knife, long and sharp as hell.

The bow was a pain to make, and even more of a pain to master, but it's crafted wonderfully. I was only able to complete it with the help of Samuel, who knows about my midnight outings and encourages them. Living with Samuel for this long has made him almost a second father to me, and I learned that he lived and died for rebellion. He ran away from three different plantations, only to be brought back, punished, and sent to a different one. When I suggested the bow and arrow, his eyes lit up with a light so crazy that I began to question his sanity. Sometimes, I still do.

Finding wood for the bow wasn't hard: we smuggled a piece of oak from the forests after the entire tree had fallen after a heavy spring rainstorm. Carving it wasn't hard, especially with the help of Arthur, a wood smith turned slave at the start of the Seven Years war. He helped carve the shape, making it sturdy, yet light. But in order to insure that the bow would not snap or show wear, it was coated with a paste made from herbs Arthur had me collect and had it sit for a year, undisturbed, and unused.

The waiting was agony. I remembered that this was how my tribe made bows, but I was not a patient person. A proper tool at my fingertips, and I couldn't use it until next fall. But it would be useless without the drawstring, which had to be from the sinew of a large animal. Nothing I found was large enough until luck shined its face on me.

When I was watching the livestock, alone, in the winter, one cow was attacked and killed by a pack of wolves, who move south to hunt when the weather turns. When cows die, they get turned into meat and shipped with the rest of the food. But this one was undisturbed. I gathered what little courage I had and found a sharp rock. I cut out a decent piece of sinew before it was found by the task masters, and we had a drawstring. Three seasons later, the bow was complete.

The knife was made from the flint that was found in the cliffs near the waterfalls. The rocks were full of them. It was set into a stumpy piece of wood for a handle, tied, and sharpened constantly.

Mastering the bow turned out to be the hardest part of the ordeal. I was terrible at first, but my skill gradually grew with practice, enough so I could hit a moving target. I had fashioned a set of ten arrows, using feathers, sticks, flint, and the remaining sinew to tie them together. They were terrible, but workable. Jenny sewed the quiver, and I was ready to go.

I had been hunting since I could use the bow properly, at about thirteen. At first, hunting made me sad, that I had to end a life so quickly. So different from the ideals I held as a healer. My life made me care for the small creatures I was hunting. Gradually, my heart stopped caring about small little animals, and only about getting the furs and meat to save my friends. It was at fifteen that I realized the stark difference between the Ava I was as a native, and the Ava I became as a slave. Kunishoka had been lost, shed like leaves on a tree, only to regrow differently, but stronger each time.

I travel farther and farther into the woods, bow on my back and the knife tucked into my sash. That sash is the same one I wore at my auction, yet my shirt, the dark blue pants that too small and too tight, and the boots are all different. I normally where a long skirt and apron while I work, but wearing these pants, hand-me-downs from Samuel, is much easier to move in.

Hunting is a slow process. I usually perch in a tree, bow drawn, and wait for any animal to cross my path. I then determine if it's worth killing, and attempt to shoot it. Deer and rabbits are popular for both meat and furs, but other animals live here as well. After they are dead and skinned, I leave the leftovers for carnivores to scavenge, insuring that the leftovers are taken care of and not discovered.

Once a month, Trevor has to go to a meeting in the town, and takes one of the female slaves, usually Jenny, to accompany him and watch the horses while he meets with his club. During that time, whoever is there goes to the market and sells all the furs I collect, along with anything worth something for necessities that we need. Clothes, shoes, and food mostly. Sometimes other things are bought if there is extra money. These items are then hidden in baskets and carts before Trevor comes back, and he returns unknowingly with our supplies. The meat I hunt gets cooked as extra rations for the large amount of slaves. This is our way of survival. Our _only_ way of survival.

One time, Jenny purchased a set of seven arrows from a passing consumables merchant. Beautifully crafted, they flew much better than the crappy arrows I made. I tried not to use them; if they hit an animal and it didn't die immediately, then it was pretty much lost. I had lost seven of my original arrows and five of the better ones. I was determined not to lose any more.

My thoughts are interrupted as I approach my normal hunting spot. Far away from any paths or guards, and near a running river, a waterfall to my left: it was a perfect spot for unsuspecting animals. I perch quietly, making sure the braches stop shaking before I pull off my bow and notch an arrow. The snow whirls around me and hides me from sight. It's cold, and I wrap my shawl tighter around my body.

After a long time, the bushes near the river shake just ever so slightly, and a nose pokes out through the dead and snowy undergrowth. It crawls tentatively into the open to take a drink. It's a fox, its bright red pelt offering no camouflage against the white snow.

Normally, I avoid killing foxes. Fox fur is very valuable, and Jenny can get a lot of money for one good pelt. But they offer a reason on why so many carcasses litter the forest in the warmer months. And if I was discovered, we would all be in trouble, not just me. But this season, when the winter brings wolves into the territory to hunt, one fox can be spared. I pull the drawstring back, the arrow securely held in my grip, and let the arrow fly.

But my aim is off. My arrow, intended for the neck or head, misses, and lodges in its flank. The fox lets out a yelp of pain and scurries across the river, towards the edge before it disappears in a clump of dead bracken.

Somewhat angry, I follow it. Crouching through the bushes, I spot a thin trail of blood from the wound trailing off the cliff of the waterfall. I'm forced to get on my hands and knees, making my clothes damp on the snow, and peek over the edge. The fox's body, crumpled and broken, is a far way down. It's clearly dead, and the arrow is still buried deep into its hindquarter. That arrow would mark the price down seriously, I think to myself bitterly. I'm about to climb down to retrieve it went I look up and see a sight that horrifies me.

Six men, guards, are patrolling around the river in a clearing, where it forks down until it spills into the cove. Why they are there in the first place perplexes me. They all have muskets, but a few are carrying large war axes as well, large enough that a swing could take your head off. I'm fortunate that I'm concealed by dead ferns, but less fortunate that the falling of the fox did not go unnoticed by the guards. One of them taps the shoulder of his comrade, and points to the dead creature. They walk towards it, trailed by one other guard. My face goes hot, and I'm about to make a run for it when the most peculiar thing happens.

The ground underneath the three guards explodes. I shriek, the sound drowned out by the large crack of the explosion. Smoke covers the air and obscures my eyesight for a brief minute; when it clears, the men walking towards my fox kill are on the ground, with bloodied faces and shocked expressions frozen in place. They are clearly dead, even I can tell that. Their companions recoil in shock and amazement. They race towards the bodies of their fallen friends, then pause. While they check the ground to make sure it's safe to approach the bodies, one of them seizes up, a blank look on his face. Through his neck is the shiny, unmistakable blade of a knife, stained crimson from the blood of the victim.

As the fourth man falls, the remaining two turn around. Standing right behind them, almost invisible in the howling winds and flakes of snow, as a man dressed in white. His outfit is accented with red, and a hood conceals his face. A sash flows from his waist and is buckled with an old looking letter. Every weapon imaginable is strapped to his back and sides. As he pulls his knife out of the guard's throat, it retracts back into his wrist on his right hand with a metallic _shing_

I can only watch in horror as the remaining two man round on him, pulling out their battle axes and growling curses. Undaunted, the hooded man pulls out two swords from his back, curved and deadly. The fighting that ensues both captivates and terrifies me. Both axes swing from all directions, but the man dodges with ease, rolling and ducking with grace astonishing for a man his size. One of the guards swinging his axe swings too wildly. The blow catches his partner in the side of the hip, and he crumples halfway into the shallows of the river, howling like the injured fox. The last remaining guard continues to fight, metal on metal clanging violently as the hooded man matches blow for blow with equal ferocity. They break apart after a while, both panting; neither of them gaining a distinct advantage. After a brief catching of breath, the man in white sheathes his sabers. Seizing the opportunity, the guard charges. My savior sidesteps easily, and the frustrated guard swings with no concern for aim. Using one hand to catch the axe handle, the hooded man stops the onslaught and uses his other arm to jab forcefully downward on his adversaries arm. The crack of bone sounds like another explosion in the otherwise tranquil environment. The guard falls to his knees, and his foe comes up behind him, using the axe handle, and pulls on his throat. I watch through my fingers as the man clutches weakly with one arm before going limp. The winner of the fight kicks the body into the river and turns his attention to the guard on the ground, his blood staining the ice and water red. His pleads feebly, and I shut my eyes for real until I hear the swift thud of the axe.

I force my eyes open after what seems like forever. The hooded man is gone, and I would have questioned whether he was even there if it weren't for the carnage surrounding the clearing below. Three men lie dead right below me, and I swing down onto the battlefield below. I kick the guards softly, even though I know there is no point. My fox is in pieces, and my arrow is gone for real. One man is halfway in the shallows, the other the full way in, prevented from flowing downstream by a fallen log.

_If they get discovered, they'll know that this wasn't just an animal attack. The wounds are far too clean. And they'll suspect us._

I tug the nearest man out of the water by underneath the arms, and hop into the freezing water to grab the other man. Snow already begins to cover the bloodstains, and I know wolves or other guards will be here in a matter of moments. Desperately, I drag three of the dead bodies into the bushes and climb up on the cliff the way I came. I glance at the moon, and I realize that I have no time left. I need to get back to the hut now, or I will be too tired to work, and then I'll be in trouble if I work drowsy.

I climb up a tree overlooking the cliff, just for one last look at the clearing below. Wolves have already appeared, pawing at the three remaining bodies. Wind blows strongly, and I sway on my branch briefly. The last thing I see and hear before I turn around and return home is the shouting of men shooing away the wolves as they come to investigate the commotion they heard from so far away.

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I was fortunate, really fortunate, that the wolves arrived when they did. The brutal fighting that I witnessed was dismissed as a wolf attack. We were not questioned, and we were not punished. Everyone asked if I had seen anything of the mauling; I answered no. I dismissed my catch less hunt as the snow being too thick to see through. No one complained, and we went about our day as usual, at the crack of dawn.

The day after was uneventful by comparison. I tended to the horses, cooked for Trevor's clients and friends from his club with Jenny, and spent the rest of the day clearing snow away from the road up to the manor with everyone else. At the end of the day, we were all tired and cold. Robert's leg required more treatment, and then we ate the remaining portions of our weekly rations. After we finish, and everyone prepares to sleep, Samuel and I venture outside.

We lean up against the walls of the hut, chatting briefly and simply until the talk turned to what I expected it to.

"What happened out there, in the forest? I know you know, _cuivre."_

Nothing gets past Samuel. I tell him the truth, privately. He listens the entire time, nodding and grunting occasionally until I finish. Then, he speaks.

"You said he was a man in white, Ava? What else did he wear?"

My mind flashes back to the sash and the symbol on his waist. I remember the letter clearly in my head. "He wore a sort of letter on his waist…here, let me draw it for you."

I grab the broom, still used by Jenny when the snow clears, and hold it upside down as I draw the symbol with the shaft in the snow. A point at the top, curves at the sides. Another line that crescents at the bottom. I draw it fairly well, I believe, and Samuel nods approvingly. His eyes are narrowed in thought, and he rubs his gray stubble.

"I've seen the symbol before. My mother used to tell me these stories about men who went about, murdering people to 'save the world', I suppose. They didn't sound that wonderful, but my mother spoke passionately about them. She would draw me this symbol in the dirt every time she spoke of it to me and my siblings. The symbol of the Assassin's."

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**No, Samuel nor his mom are Assassin's. We'll delve into the Assassin who fought in the next chapter, when I can write it.**

**Also, if you have a problem with Ava having a scar on her lip, please don't. It literally means nothing. It's just there. It doesn't advance the plot. It's just _there_**

**As always, I hope you enjoyed!**


	6. Vérité

**Yay, another chapter! Thank you for more reviews, follows, and favorites! I really appreciate them! You guys are the best!**

**Like always, I don't own Assassin's Creed, just my OCs.**

**Please enjoy!**

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_February 5__th__, 1773_

After my close encounter with the "Assassin", I avoided going into the forests. Not only because I was terrified of what I might find, but because I didn't want to arose the suspicion of anyone. Especially Trevor, who suddenly became more and more irritable. He held a tighter leash on all of us, and inflicted harsher punishments for slacking. One night, we awoke to find Bethany, one of the younger slave girls, gone. Bethany earlier that day had accidentally threaded a piece of clothing wrong when she was sewing, an honest mistake in the eyes of a reasonable person. She came back a little while later during the night; her shirt ripped off and her eyes red from the profuse sobbing. Even after we comforted her, she refused to talk. Even now, she refuses to speak. No one can figure out what happened to her, but we suspected the worst, and the involvement of Trevor was obvious.

Trevor seems not only more ruthless, but more restless. He jumped at small noises, and was quick with a biting insult if anything was out of line. I knew that his behavior was probably connected to the slaughtering of the men by the waterfall, but I couldn't understand why, or how he knew about it in the first place. As far as I knew, no one but Samuel knew about the real event, or at least could guess the actual truth. But that would be a mystery to solve for another day.

With Robert's leg mostly healed and safe from infection, I also had no dire reason to return to the forest. Yet, like rotting wood, the momentary stability became brittle and cracked, Now that our rations are gone, I knew that I would have to go eventually, or else the slaves would starve in the cold weather without any food. And even if we didn't starve, we would still be at Trevor's mercy.

Three nights after the event in the woods, I venture out again, a little earlier than I did before. It is a relatively clear night; no snow, no wind, no clouds. I abandon my shawl back at the hut, as I only use it if the temperature is below freezing. My boots make deep footprints as I sneak around the back, and I make a mental note to get rid of them when I return.

The forests offer blissful tranquility for my stormy thoughts. My mind has been reeling for the past couple of days, but here, I can finally get some peace. I glide through the trees, passing the sleeping guards easily as I continue my journey. The forest is crawling with life tonight: rabbits and deer bound easily through the foliage below, and I even see a pack of wolves racing each other through the white landscape.

When I gather my supplies at the oak, I take a different path than I took the last time. This path take me in the same general direction, but I end up closer to the cove where the ships dock. It is near an abandoned storehouse. It was used originally for keeping the goods we received from the massive vessels, but it became too far out of the way for the workers and sailors. It was left to rot, and a new warehouse was built closer to the shore. This warehouse runs far away from any river, but it offers shelter to refugee animals. Small and reclusive, barely anyone knows where it is. The roof has partly caved in, and loose and broken boards surround the place. Even as I near the clearing it is in, I can see that the snow has been considerably trampled by the animals that pass through the area. Jumping down and landing safely, I hide in some bushes, growing unruly on the corner of the storehouse, while I'm scanning the area and waiting for my prey to come along.

As I expected, it's not too long before a rabbit strays into the clearing. With its back to me, I draw my bow and end its short life swiftly. My thoughts brush back to when I was a little child in the Mohawk valley, and when I had first witnessed the brutality of hunting with an arrow to the stomach of the same animal. Yet, after nine years, the memory is dusty and faded, and I shrug it off impatiently as I exit my hiding spot. I'm about to skin the animal when the loud blast of a gun makes me jump. My first reaction is to cover my head with my arms, but nothing hits me or anything around me. When I'm positive that I'm not injured, I slowly stand up and look wildly around. A noise behind me makes me turn around and draw my knife, cursing at myself that I have no idea how to use it for protection. Not that it will help against the long range of a musket.

To my surprise, it's a deer that limps into the clearing. Its breathing is heavy, and its back leg begins to blossom with blood. Someone must be hunting. I'm rooted to the spot as it collapses not far from my own kill, panting and scrambling weakly.

I feel my blood turn to ice when I'm met with its hunter. The hooded man that slaughtered all those guards a few days ago in front of my very eyes enters the clearing, throwing the musket he used into the bushes. The deer makes desperate attempts to get away, but the hunter draws his odd blade, saying a few words in another language before stabbing it and ending its life. I swallow hard when his gaze snaps up to me; a young slave girl holding a knife and unable to move. His blade retracts back into his wrists as he stands up to face me.

The hooded man slowly raises his arms up, and speaks in a deep voice with a heavy accent I think is French. "Sheathe your knife, girl. I'm not going to hurt you."

I cautiously take a few steps closer, but I don't put my blade down. I attempt to keep my voice from shaking as I speak to him, but it comes out as small and fragile instead. "Are you going to…kill me? Like you did with those guards three nights ago?" _I sound like a lost dog! That's not going to go over well._

I'm close enough to the man that I see his eyes light up with recognition underneath the hood. "So _you_ were the girl who killed the fox! I guess I should thank you for that. I was going to charge in, six on one, but that wouldn't have been a fair fight, _non?"_

He chuckles softly, and I finally lower my knife in my confusion. He sounds… grateful? I am about to question him further when I hear the mumbling of the guards, and I'm gripped with terror. The other man seems unnerved as he speaks with a voice as cool as the ice around us.

"We need to get out of the open. Follow me. I know a place where we can talk."

I hesitate. Part of me wants to race back into the woods; turn my back on all this commotion. But a nagging feeling in my gut says that I want to go with the mysterious man I know nothing of. Find out what he knows, and why he is a killer. I shoot a glance into the trees, then back at the man. His gloved hand waves impatiently to the cliffs behind the storehouse. Before I can think better of it, I stick my knife in my sash, seize my rabbit, and sprint after him, snow kicking up as I follow directly behind. My boot is pulled over the cliff just in time; the guards arrive to see a series of footprints next to an abandoned warehouse. The footprints of the animals obscure ours, and they don't follow.

We don't walk for long before we arrive at another cliff not too far from the waterfall. Pine trees surround the base, and dead needles fly everywhere as the hooded man pushes through them. I go after him the way he came, and I'm met with a blast of heat. The pine trees cover up a very spacious cavern. A fire roars in the center, but the pine trees block the light from reaching out into the open. It smells similar to the hut that I live in, cooked meat, mud, and hay. A couple of wooden crates pile up in the back, and a bunch of blankets lie in front of them; I assume that would be where the man sleeps. Resting up on of one the crates are the sabers the Assassin used to defeat the guards. They are tucked away in a beautiful ornate sheath, complete with a leather strap to sling over the shoulder. I'm about to complement the exquisiteness of the blades, but I stop when I see his face. The hood covering half his features has been taken off, and I get my first glimpse of his appearance.

The first time, I had only seen him from a distance, and the last encounter made me so scared that I didn't pay attention to the features of his body. In a way, he reminds me of Samuel. The skin is much darker, however. It's almost as dark as the ink the task master write with. His head is shaven bald, and he is considerably younger than I imagined. His eyes are black, the pupils almost obscured by the iris. He sits down in front of the fire, motioning for me to sit with him. I collapse gratefully yet warily opposite him.

His face shows wear that I wouldn't have though imaginable on a person so young. Expect perhaps a slave. He draws up his legs to his chest as he speaks again.

"So, now that one problem is solved, I am greeted with another." I feel a slight flash of annoyance at his words as he continues. "But we must get formalities out of the way. What is your name? If you tell me yours, I may tell you mine."

"My name's Ava." I whisper with my face bowed. He chuckles again, forcing me to look up.

"Beautiful name for one so young. Over the years, I have gone by many names. But when I was born, my mother named me Léon, after the wild animals that roamed the home of my ancestors."

Léon draws one of the blades on his wrist, staring meaningfully at it until his attention snaps back to me. "I'm sure you're wondering why I killed those people, _non_? Well, you see, the tru-"

"I know already." I interrupt his little speech. "It's because you're an Assassin, right?"

Léon seems startled at my words, but he nods again, a smile returning to his dark features. "_Oui,_ you are correct. How did you know?"

"My friend has heard of you. He told me that you murder people to get what you want." Silence. "Is that true?"

The sound of metal pierces the silence as Léon retracts the blade back into his wrist. He faces me with a stare so cold that the fire seemed to grow dimmer, and a chill blasted through the evergreen wall as he spoke to me. "Yes and no. I won't lie, I have murdered people; more than you have met before in your life, probably. But as an Assassin, I fight for the freedom of my fellow people. I do not kill 'to get what I want', Ava, I kill men who seek to enslave their own flesh and blood. I fight a group of men called the Templars. Alone. They seek to control us, to make us puppets at their very control. They defeat anyone who stands in their way. They have power and resources beyond your imagining. But what would you know about this? You live your life at the mercy of the Templars as we speak. You live your life on the brink of life and death. Is that any sort of way for a person to live? At least I can say that I fight for a cause. You squander through the mud, obeying the wishes of your 'equals.' But you don't do anything about it. I've been through more pain and suffering than you have. So don't you _dare_ think you know who I am."

He finishes angrily, punching the ground with his fists. The more he spoke, the angrier Léon seemed to get. His passionate fury made me wince, because what he said was true. I didn't understand some of it, what with the conversation of Templars, but part of his speech rang loudly and echoed in my head like a bell chime. Perhaps it was Samuel's crazy theories of rebellion, but I agreed that, as a slave, I did obey orders that I wish I didn't. And I was punished if things weren't perfect. Léon promptly turned his back to me as I touched the scar on my lips. A constant reminder to stay in line. But I had never really stayed in line, right?

I breathe in deeply. "You're right, Léon. I don't know anything about you."

He turned his head, still fixing me with a hardened look.

"But I'd like to understand."

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I visited Léon every chance I got after I met him properly. He had been staying in the cave for almost a month, and the guard's suspicions of him were only recently aroused. I told no one of our meetings, and no one suspected a thing. I came to work a bit more tired each day, but I forced myself to stay awake when I knew the task masters were watching. I returned with enough furs and prey to get us by. But I always paid a visit to the cave in the cliffs every time I went to hunt.

The Assassin gradually warmed up to my company, and I his. He told me of the long fights of the Assassin's and Templars, stretching all the way across the ocean to worlds I had never heard of. He spoke of important people in the order, and the men they had to kill in order to save the people they fought for. Léon also told me of the battle in the colonies; how the Templars had established a large order in the north, and exterminated almost all the Assassin's. The ones who survived, very few and very far between, either fled for different lands, or became vigilantes, still loyal to the order but fighting alone. He also briefly mentioned the Pieces of Eden, mystical devices that held immense power, too complicated for my head to grasp.

After he told me of the Assassin's, Léon told me of his life. He was born in a place called _Saint Dominque, _an island owned by the French with a tumultuous ruling. He stowed away on a trading ship when he was sixteen to start a new life in the colonies, but was enslaved after he arrived when the Seven Years War began. He was rescued by the Assassins, who came to kill the corrupted Templar plantation owner and rescued the slaves. Léon then decided to give his life to the services of the order, but that was when they were eliminated by the orders of the Templar Grandmaster. At the mere age of nineteen, he barely escaped death by sneaking away to the west. He had been hunting the Templars ever since. Léon had travelled to my plantation because he had heard the rumors through the Templar couriers of a prominent figure residing near the town, and his goal was to see him eliminated.

He taught me about his weapons during one visit. The sabers he used to take out the guards were farewell gifts from his father, a talented blacksmith back in his home country. Custom made, and crafted with steel, there were almost no swords that could match them, if they were wielded by the right person. The sabers were heavy, built especially for Léon, but deadly to anyone that dared to cross his path. Léon also showed me the mechanisms of his hidden blades, how they works and what they were used for. I was also showed the rope darts, the small flintlock he carried in his boot, and the trip wire bombs, which were the weapons that were used to take down the first three guards in our first encounter. Small and light, those were kept in small pockets on the back of Léon's Assassin's robes. The robes were given to him after he completed his training to a full Assassin. The hood was meant as a symbol of the incognito, and the point at the top was meant to symbolize the curved beak of a bird of prey, as well as obscure the face.

All the talk of liberation planted the seeds of rebellion in my mind. But they were yet to sprout. I couldn't just run away; I would be caught for sure. And even so, I would not abandon my fellow slaves, who had come to be like my family. And although I believed in the ideas the assassin's preached, I certainly had no interest in becoming one. Killing animals was hard enough, but _people?_ That was above my courage level.

One visit, I asked a question that had been bothering me for some time.

"Léon, there's one thing I don't understand."

The Assassin turned his attention away from sharpening his sabers. "Yes?"

"The Assassin's and Templars seem to both want peace, right? So why don't they just put aside their differences and… work together?"

I was met with a hard stare as Léon stopped his job and turned his body to face me fully.

"You speak of peace, and cooperation, Ava. But you don't understand everything. The Templars seek peace through order, but the assassin's seek peace through the freedom of men. For example, would you rather live in a world where you are respected as an individual, but you are forced to bend to the whims of those in charge. If they wish for the women to leave their husbands, or the men to be forced into an unreasonable battle, you would be forced to obey, or face the consequences. Or would you rather the same situation, but you did not have to bend to the whims of the men in charge. You would be truly free. These are the view of the Templars and Assassins, and they will never change. This is why we can't ever be allies."

I didn't know if what Léon said was true or not, but I decided against questioning him.

Our meetings continued for about two weeks. In that time, Léon hadn't found out the identity of the Templar in the town. It wasn't until a coincidence lead to the reveal of the man Léon was hunting.

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Samuel and the rest of us wake up to a full blizzard, whiting out the massive fields and making the manor disappear completely in a fog of snowflakes. Nevertheless, Trevor forced us outside anyway, he himself in one of the foulest moods I had ever seen him in. The conditions were almost impossible to work in, and everyone was chilled to the bone before the noon bell had even rung. It was my job that day to tend to the horses, all seventeen of them. Mrs. Heathrow had always had a love for horses; she enjoyed the different coats and sizes, as well as their grace and beauty. And I could see why. After she died, Trevor got rid of a few, but not all of them. Some of them had babies that Jenny called colts. Each day, all of the horses needed to be brushed, fed, and covered with blankets. As I finished brushing the black mare, I noticed three figures coming through the blizzard.

It was Trevor, and he was accompanied by two men I had never seen before. One of them had a large scruffy beard, but the other lacked the same facial hair. All three of them wore many layers to protect from the cold of the snowfall. They had their heads bent, talking in hushed voices as they came closer and closer to the stables. I continued to work as they passed me, them not noticing the Indian slave girl tending to the horses in the stalls. I caught a glimpse of Trevor: face was red. I assumed it wasn't from the cold. All three of them disappeared around the edge of the stables, and I stopped dead. What aroused my interest was that I could have sworn I had heard the word "cross."

Cautiously, I creep over to the end of the stables and peek around the edge. My braid hits my face as I'm forced to draw my head back. Trevor and his two companions are standing right behind the thin wall. A tad shocked, I lean against the wall to steady my breathing. Blurred words sound through the wood. I press my ear to the wall of the stable to make them out.

"I don't want it, Jeremy! I don't want any of the Negro's wondering what I got!" That was defiantly Trevor. A new voice pops up after, cutting Trevor's complaint short. "No one wants it, Trev. But you live alone. I got a wife, and kids! And Tim lives with his sister. You gotta take it."

The third voice pipes up. "You swore an oath to this order, Trevor. It's your burden now. So suck it up. Besides, it's only for one night. Then we take the merchandise to the Grandmaster. The Templars may finally give you some respect now in the club." I hear someone spit crossly, and a bunch of laughter, but I'm frozen on the spot, unable to move. I feel trapped again, like how I was so long ago in the slave carts. The shock hasn't worn off by the time the footsteps begin again, coming back around the corner. I'm unable to hide fast enough before Trevor and his allies catch me by the final horse. Trevor's face screws up in fury, while his companions share a worried glance.

"What are you doing here, you disgusting savage?"

I bite my tongue to prevent a stinging retort from escaping my lips. "I'm just tending to the horses, sir." My mind races for an excuse. "This one was shivering, so I'm going to fetch his blanket early."

My master's face swells up, and he opens his mouth to speak again. One of the men places a hand on his shoulder and jerks his head back in the direction of the manor. Trevor stops halfway through his thoughts, settling for a spit at my feet, much to the amusement of his fellow Templars. They turn around and march back up to the manor, leaving me to deal with the fear breaking spreading through my mind like a summer thunderstorm.

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It's now nighttime, and I'm racing across the treetops as fast as I can. My mind is threatening to overflow with terror as I hop through the maze of branches. The snow that fell earlier has since subsided, yet I see less guards on the paths during my journey across the forest. I need to warm Léon about the certainty of a Templar influence at the plantation. And whatever they were delivering certainly can't benefit the slaves.

As I near the cliffs where Léon makes his temporary home, I feel a sudden sense of dread run up my spine. I passed almost no guards on my way, and the forest was deadly silent. I ignore these feelings, against my better judgment, as I approach the entrance to the cave. I'm about to enter, but then I notice the huge trail of footprints at the front of the cliff, passing through the trees, and I stop cold. I would have thought these were the prints of Léon, but it just snowed heavily. The must have been made recently, and by _many _people.

Sensing the danger, I follow my instincts this time and I back up into the forests. I had just climbed back up into the tree when I hear the noises of men, and three guards walk out of the pine trees. They're drenched in blood, and they drag their muskets on the ground, leaving thin red trails in the deep snow. When they disappear, I jump down from the tree and sprint towards the entrence.

_Please be away! Please. Please just have gone hunting, or washing, or getting a freaking drink at the river. Please don't be in this cave, _I think desperately as I thrust my way through the pines.

I'm met with the grisly scene of blood and gore. The stench of death reeks through the air as I race further in, threatening to suffocate me. A small screech escapes my lips as I nearly trip over the unmoving body of the Assassin, lying still on the bloody ground and surrounded by the dead bodies of the men he had killed as he fought his last battle.

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**I hope that ending was a surprise to at least one of you! Next chapter, we get to see how Ava chooses to deal with the death of Léon, and how she deals with Trevor.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	7. Eyes on Fire

**Yay, another chapter! Thanks again for more favs, reviews, and follows! Now, we get to see what happens! It's probably not as good as the last few considering I was writing really tired, and this may be the last chapter i post for a while until I get a majority of my summer work done. **

**The title of this chapter is based of the song"Eyes on Fire" by Blue Foundation. Listen to it while you read if you want.**

**Like always, I don't own anything in Assassin's Creed, just my OCs. Please enjoy the story!**

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_February 17__th__, 1773_

A chill echoed throughout my body as my eyes locked with the horrible scene before me. It felt as though someone had punched me five times in the stomach: my lungs forget how to take in air while I stood in the middle of this carnage. Blood was everywhere, splattering against the walls of the cavern and pooling on the floor. The dim light of the dying fire made the liquid reflect strangely as I fought for breath. Five or six guards lay around my friend, their expressions frozen forever as they lay on the hard stone of the cave. A few of them still had their weapons clutched in their hands, rendered useless now that their lives had been taken. Léon's body was the worst of them all. The blood seeping from his wounds mixed with those that he killed. The robes, normally white, were so soaked in blood that it turned into a red uniform accented with white. In one hand was his hidden blade and the other held a sword, not one of his but one of his opponents. The sabers were not on his back, and I assumed that they were farther in the hideout or else taken as a prize of victory. At first, I thought of him dead until I saw the desperate rise and fall of his chest, and the heard the weak hacking. One or two of the guards moaned as well in some sort of response, but I ignored them as I bent down over Léon and pushed him onto his back.

His face showed many lacerations, and one eye had a large scratch running vertically down the side of his face, impairing his sight and rendering the right eye unusable. I swallow hard as I press my hands down onto the largest puncture in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. As I did so, he wrenched his one remaining eye open, raised his head a bit, and flashed me a small smile. Even his teeth were stained with red.

More blood bubbled at his mouth as Léon spoke to me softly. "Are you…hurt, Ava?"

I could feel the tears coming as blood began to leak through my fingers. I shake my head no. The Assassin sighed and let his head fall back onto the ground. The sound of his voice jars me from my grief momentarily. I hear my voice get high pitched with desperation as I start to break down.

"Listen, we need to get you out of here! We can go over the cliffs, head into town! I know herbs that can help you! Yarrow for bleeding, plantain for infections, all that! We can get some wraps and w-"

"It's too late for that." Léon interrupts me, his breathing getting shallower. "I'm afraid it's too late for that. You know it too."

I don't move my hands away from his chest as he closes his good eye. "How did this all happen? Were you…_discovered?_"

"Even the greatest hero… slips up once in a while. I was outnumbered, and the fight…ing was not in the open. I was cornered. I managed to…take down…a few." I hear the shuffling of feet and the soft thump of a boot kicking a dead guard. Léon sighs again. I want to wail out loud that his answer doesn't explain anything. But for his sake, I hold in my thoughts. I bite my tongue hard until I taste the metallic taste of my own blood. I wipe a stray tear as I remember the reason I dashed over here in the first place.

"I found out who the Templar is. It's Trevor."

"Then you…must be…the one to finish him, Ava."

I recoil in shock as he continues. Each word Léon speaks seems to cost him extreme effort. "Your master…is going to enslave you…farther, if you let him live. I know you don't want…to," he cuts across the start of my plea, "but the needs of many outweigh…the needs of…one, right?"

The teardrops are flooding out of my eyes now. I make no attempt to stop them as they run down my face and drip onto Léon's robe. I sniff silently and nod my head. My voice cracks and the words I speak are merely a whisper.

"I'll try."

I still don't remove my hands from the gruesome wound in his chest. The last words of the Assassin are merely a breath as he struggles with the sounds.

"Thank…you…Ava. I'm glad…to." That's it. Silence after that. The only noise now is the sound of my own heart, beating fast and drum-like. I cease with putting pressure on the wound, letting my bloody hands drop to my sides. The blood clashes with Léon's dark skin as it continues to pool out. My hands are sticky from trying to stop the flow. I'm absolutely sobbing now. The Assassin looks incredibly at peace now, at peace from the cruel world he was brought into, that we all were brought into.

I sit there for what seems like forever until I remind myself of the duty I promised my friend and I pick myself up off the ground. I sway slightly as my vision bobbles around. The world seems like it has turned itself upside down. I shoot one more glance at the dead body of my friend. Part of me doesn't want to leave him there, but what choice do I have?

I stumble blindly into the deeper parts of the cave. Before I kick the fires out, I search the cavern until I find what I'm looking for. The sabers; tucked away into the corner of the cave behind a crate. They seem undamaged. I remove my bow before slinging them over my shoulder. I fasten the leather strap and pull the bow on again, over the opposite shoulder. The swords are heavy, but not impossible to carry.

As I exit the cave, I whisper a few words to Léon as a last rite. His body will most likely be taken away by the guards. Maybe thrown into the ocean. Or perhaps buried somewhere in an unmarked grave. Hopefully, his troubles are over. But it seems that mine are only just beginning.

I travel back home with all of my weapons, swords included. It's slow at first, having to adjust to the extra weight of the sabers, but I eventually get the hang of leaping through the trees again. It starts to snow on my way back, and I wish that I had brought my shawl. In my hurry to see Léon, I had forgotten all about it. My mind is whirring too fast, and in my haste, I slip and plummet to the ground on the forest. My body lands with an awful thud, and snow from the branches covers me as I lie, shivering, on the ground. Instead of getting up, I curl up on the floor of the woods. My tears start to prick my eyes again as I consider my options.

Could I really kill a man? I don't know if I had the strength in me. I understand that I promised my friend that I would do it, but the repercussions for doing so would be great. Not just for me, but for all the people I cared about. But if I don't do anything, we may be subjected to torture by the Templars. And that is a fate worse than death.

My eyes flicker as I remember the first time I had seen the Assassin. Fighting like all hell had been unleashed to do his bidding. He had saved me, taught me about who he was, and what he fought for, and I had gotten him killed because of it. It was my fault that the guards had found him, most likely under Trevor's orders. I owed him a debt. And I hated owing people. The least I could do was repay his last wish. It's what my father would have done, I realize with a jolt of nostalgia. For home.

It was at that moment that I realized just how homesick I really was. My longing for my tribe mates had been repressed for the longest times, but with the drama of the Assassins and the Templars, they have been awoken.

I pick myself up off the cold ground and scrambled back up a tree. I spend the rest of the time on my journey trying to figure out how I was going to be able to do this. To find the opportunity and gather the courage to kill a man that has enslaved me for more than half of my life. I can't come up with anything by the time I reach the slave hut again, and I'm met with a sight that causes me to panic.

A horse drawn carriage is being lead through the snow, up to the manor. I can just barely make out the features of one of Trevor's Templar friends, one of the men whom he was talking to. Tucked under his arm is a box no bigger than a jewelry chest, simple and plain in design. The Templar flicks the reigns, and the horse breaks into a trot as they head towards the manor. Even from this distance, I can see that one of the lights in the manor is still on.

I feel my body seize up. The chest must contain the package that will be delivered to the Grandmaster the next day. Then, Trevor will get rid of us. For good. With the successful delivery of the item, he will have no need for us anymore. Who knows what he'll do to us?

It was now or never.

I have to kill my master now.

Trembling from cold and fear, I race up to the manor. The snow starts to fall thicker as I near the white walls of the house. The cart with the package stops at the front porch, and I hide around the corner when I reach the manor. When I peek around the corner, I'm able to see Trevor come out, receive the package from his accomplice, and go back inside, slamming the door on his way. The man driving the cart climbs back into his carriage, no doubt to go home and warm up with his family. With a snap of the reigns, he fades into the whiteness

Now that I had a set goal, how was I to reach it? Walking in the front door was obviously not an option, but perhaps I could climb in through a window? I come out of my hiding spot and approach the porch. A large pole supports the roof of the deck, and windows are easily accessible if I can get on top of that. I take a running start, then launch myself at the pole. I grab a small ledge around halfway up, and I use that as a support for my body as I shimmy up the rest of the way. I'm at the top in no time, to my bewilderment. Cautiously, I open a window and creep inside, shutting it carefully to keep the warmer air inside.

I've been upstairs before, and I assume that the chest well be located in Trevor's study. I take small, quiet steps as I travel to the end of the hall and around a corner. The study is the first door on the left, and I feel a small glimmer of satisfaction when I can see that the light is on. The door is left ajar, and I open it a tad. Three candle are lit as I creep inside the room. It's fairly large, with a desk and a chair and another large table in the back of the room. And sitting on the table is the chest.

I walk briskly over to the ornate object. The design is more complex then I could see from a distance. The design is beautiful; crisscrosses of gold line the box, and a small clasp seals it. My hand is on the lid when I hear the voice I expected to when I entered the building.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Trevor's scathing question doesn't make me jump. Instead, I turn around. His face is many deep shades of red as he sees the Native American slave girl, dressed in a dirty white shirt and too small blue pants. Complete with leather boots, a red sash, and almost every weapon imaginable. His eyes narrow in a brief flash of confusion, and perhaps fear, but it passes through before I can really tell.

"Nice box you've got here." I start. I try to keep the fear out of my voice for the time being, and it seems to work. "What's inside?"

Trevor's eyes flick to the bow, then the swords. A nasty smile spreads across his face. "You've been hanging out with that Assassin, haven't you, you savage? What did he say, that we were the bad guys? That stupid Negro has been filling your head with lies, you stupid piece of shit."

My heart leaps slightly. "Maybe, but all I know is that you'll be planning on getting rid of us when this," I tap the chest, "is delivered to the head of the Templars. Am I right?"

"Slaves are expendable."

"Try telling that to them."

Trevor spits crossly, but then reclaims his calm stature. To my shock and surprise, he pulls out a sword from his belt. It's long, and sharp, and he twirls it for a second before looking me dead in the eye. "Do you want to know something, you stupid bitch?"

I stare blankly back at him. I need to keep my demeanor calm and intimidating, without showing my fear. But nothing could have prepared me for what Trevor was about to say.

"Heathrow didn't die of 'natural causes', like all you idiots thought. She died because I killed her."

I can feel the ground sway beneath my feet. My expression must have changed to one of shock, because Trevor takes his chance and continues. He studies the sword now, holding it up to his nose as he confesses.

"Yes, I was rather easy. Slipping foxglove into my grand mum's sister's porridge wasn't hard. Foxglove isn't easy to spot once it's in food, and soon enough the old coot was choking on her own vomit. After she died, she left me this place. I could continue my Templar duties without her constant hostility. She died in five minutes, flat." Trevor added, gripping the sword with both hands. His cold eyes lock with mine. "But I can kill you in less than that!"

I barely have time to duck out of the way before his charge reaches me. I hear the whistle of the sword pass by my ear as the edge of the deadly weapon catches me in the side. I gasp with a searing pain and clutch my side, feeling it wet once again with blood. Trevor spins on the spot as I struggle to pull out one of the sabers. When I finally wrench it out of the sheath, I can feel that it is too heavy in my hand, and I grip it with both hands to keep it level. I begin to feel panic rise in my chest as Trevor charges again. I try to sidestep, but my wound hampers me, and Trevor is ready for this trick. A leg flashes out, and I land hard. I'm forced to scramble backwards on all fours as the sword of my adversary comes down on where I was a heartbeat earlier. I find myself pinned against the corner, trembling, as my master points his sword over my heart. His expression shows triumph. I choke back a sob as I feel the cold blade press against my skin.

Trevor pulls the sword back, preparing for the final thrust. "Say good-bye, savage."

Almost unconsciously, I pull out my knife from my sash and stab it into the leg of my master. The blade sinks through the skin and lodges itself into his calf. Trevor howls with pain as he grabs for the knife, and I seize my chance as he is distracted. I kick out and catch him in the stomach, pushing him halfway across the study. I pull up my sword as Trevor drags the knife out of his leg, letting it fall to the floor. Blinded by pain and rage, he charges again. My mind flashes back to the first battle I saw, and I sidestep once more, clumsily swinging for the other leg. The second hiss tells me I've found my target, and I kick the back of the legs to down Trevor. As he falls to his knees, I slide the edge of the saber over his throat, and pull back. It comes back bloody.

Trevor lets out a gasp that's cut short. He grasps for his throat and falls to the ground. I'm amazed to see how fast his life ebbs away, bleeding out onto the wooden floor. He shudders once, then twice, then no more. The master that had tormented me for half my life, the one who killed his own kin to get what he wanted, was dead. By my hand. My sword falls to the ground with a clatter. I had killed someone. I had sunk as low as anyone could go. I was becoming an Assassin; something I didn't want to be at all. And I had never felt more scared than I had felt in my life.

As I stood still and pondered what would become of me, I realized that there was another thing that had to be taken care of. The anticipation chased my dark thoughts away for the moment. I step over the dead body of Trevor and halt next to the chest, fiddling with the clasp. I had to hide this from the Templars. Even if I wasn't going to be safe, at least the other slaves wouldn't have to suffer for my actions. Dumping it into the ocean, burying it underground, even taking it with me wherever I end up. Anything to get it away.

At last, the box opens. Inside are two items; a half-moon shape of rock on a piece of leather, and a glass sphere. The half-moon amulet forms some sort of necklace, but the sphere seems to have no practical use that I can tell. I pick it up, and it starts to glow at my touch. Gasping with shock, I drop it; it falls to the ground with a clatter, but it doesn't shatter. In a matter of seconds, the entire room is filled with thin threads of golden light, not unlike the design on the chest it was contained in. Mysterious symbols begin to flash on the walls, and the candles blow out. The only source of light in the room was the glass sphere, which was ringing oddly now. I stare in amazement as a sudden burst of brightness fills the room, brighter than the afternoon sun, and I shield my eyes from the glow, dropping my sword in the process.

When at last I sense that the light has died down some, I uncover my eyes, and to my utter amazement, a woman is standing right in front of me. She wears a long flowing white dress, and a complicated headpiece over her unruly black hair. She seems…transparent, almost. I can still see the outline of the table and chest behind her. What haunted me most about her were her eyes. Glassy and hollow looking, I felt as though she was staring into my soul, judging me. When she spoke, it seemed to echo throughout the room.

"Child, thank you for freeing me. If I had been contained for one day more, the world would have surely become unbalanced."

I take a tentative step forward. "Are you a spirit?" I breathe in amazement. My naivety is answered with a smile. Or perhaps a smirk. The woman's strange eyes lock onto my swords, and she smiles even wider.

"You are from the north, correct. By a large lake? I can see that your people need you, but not as much as this land needs you."

"What do you mean?"

The spirit waved her hand. "There are more people like him," she points to Trevor's unmoving body, "that seek to rule this land. It is part of your duty to stop them. You know what you must do, child."

My heart jumps in my throat. I know what she is trying to tell me, but that doesn't make me what to accept it. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn away. "I don't want to. I just want to go back to my village and forget all of this ever happened! I don't want to be a killer!"

"ACCEPT YOUR DESTINY!" The woman shrieks behind me, but that is all she says. The thin threads of golden light are gone, and I hear a small shattering, like someone stepping on a glass bottle. I whip around to find the woman gone. The glass sphere on the floor is now in a million pieces, unsalvageable for certain, and that is one problem off my chest. The words she spoke to me are still ringing in my ears, filling me with unspoken dread as I stride over, taking care not to step on the glass shards, and snatch the half-moon amulet from the chest. I can take care of this when I get farther away from the plantation. No one has come up to investigate the commotion, and I assume that no one has heard it. But someone will be up to check on my master in the morning, and then I'll be found out for sure. I just need to escape before I do.

I bend down to pick up the sword I dropped, sheath it, and walk out of the room, not once glancing back at the dead body behind me as I shut the door.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

I barge into the slave hut, waking those closest to the door up in a frenzy. I rustle the ones who are still asleep and gather them in the center. Some of the rub there eyes, but others, like Robert and Sarah, are wide eyed and awake with excitement. I envy their blind enthusiasm as I count heads. There are just under thirty of us. It's a stretch, but we should be able to escape without anyone noticing if we move quickly. But it's at dawn when the guards check on us and rouse us for a day's work, and judging by the height of the moon through the smoke hole, that leaves us with two hours to get out of this place and somewhere safe. I'm pulled from my thoughts by the grumpy complaints from some of the older men, and my mind snaps back to the present.

"Listen, all of you. We're getting out, tonight. If you all are tired of living like this, we can hop on the horses and escape. Right up to the north. No one will dare follow us-."

"Expect Trevor!" One of the older men shouts from the back. "He'll send out a party, and we'll all get hanged, or shot! What's gotten into you, you stupid half breed?"

Some other voices jump to my defense, but I can tell that they are asking the same question. Samuel looks at me, and I can tell he has already guessed what happened.

I wanted to avoid telling the slaves the entire truth, but with everyone questioning me, what choice do I have now? Better to say it now than later, when I will be in more trouble from not only killing a man, but from hiding the truth as well.

I call for quiet, and it takes a long time before anyone settles down. When at last I have everyone's attention, I take a deep breath and confess.

"Trevor's not going to be hunting us. Because he's dead. Because I killed him."

Uproar. I shouldn't have expected anything less. Everyone is yelling and screaming. Husbands pull their wives closer. Robert and Sarah look at me with horrified eyes. Only Samuel and Jenny come to my defense, and it's a long time before anyone is silent. Accusing stares are thrown at me, and after a long period of quietness, Samuel speaks again.

"Listen. I don't know what Trevor did to deserve getting killed, but Ava never does anything without a reason. Y'all threatening to turn on her now, but think about it for a sec. Every person in this here room would've died if it weren't for Ava goin' out into the forest to hunt for us. No one asked her to do it. She did it because she didn't want any of us to starve. And now, we have a chance to live our lives again!" Some of the other slaves glance at each other uncertainly. "And turning against each other isn't goin' to help any of us. I'm gonna stick with Ava. Do what she says. If the rest of you want to come, that's fine. If you don't, have fun being slaves."

Samuel makes me seem braver than I actually am. In fact, it was he who persuaded me to go out and hunt for everyone so we didn't starve. But I don't mention anything. The rest of the slaves exchange glances. Eventually, we split into two groups. The ones that want to go with Samuel and I, including Jenny and Arthur the woodworker, stand in one corner. The ones who don't want to go stay in the other. Our group is the largest by far, and I sigh with relief and gratitude as one or two come over to join us from the other group.

"Alright." Samuel begins. "We will take the horses, saddle them up, and leave tonight. Grab all your belongings and meet us by the stables.

By the time we are all gathered in front of the horses, I reckon we have about an hour until dawn. Saddling them is slow work, but we eventually prep all the horses and climb onto their backs. I hop onto a white steed. Samuel climbs onto the black one that I was brushing not a day earlier. Jenny balances precariously with her two children on the strongest horse, deep brown with white hooves. The others pair off with each other, avoiding taking every horse in the stables. When we are finished, there are three horses left that we leave for the other slaves in case they change their minds. I strap the sabers onto the saddle, and tug the reigns slightly. With a cry of triumph, all of us ride off down the path, through the snow, and past the hut. As we gallop along the cliff, it comes to my mind on how we are so close to being free, just as Samuel had always predicted. We are abandoning the life that we lived for so long, and we don't look back as we disappear with a flurry of snowflakes.

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**So now the slaves are heading north. And we get to see Ava reunite with Connor and possibly meet more vigilante Assassins! **

**Hope you enjoyed!**


	8. Odyessy

**Cranking out another chapter on national go back to school day. Huzzah! Nothing really much to explain here expect that I want to thank you all again for the reviews and follows/favs.**

**As always, I don't own anything in Assassin's Creed, just my OC's. Enjoy!**

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_March 6__th__, 1773_

I feel weightless. Almost as if I'm falling through the sky, but there is nothing that offers any familiarity. No blue. No clouds, just a consuming darkness. An eagle cries out somewhere, but it's too far off for me to reach. My eyes suddenly feel heavy; I can feel them closing as I sink farther and farther into blackness. Something brushes against my shoulder, and for a moment, I think it is the eagle I heard from so far away. However, this thing rocks me back and forth softly and gently. A voice can be heard again, but it's not the eagle. Rather, I hear my own name. Against my will, almost, I force my eyes open. I'm not in a swirling abyss, falling forever through. I'm lying on the floor of a dirty abandoned barn. Hay pokes my sides, and the entire place smells of old feces. The gentle rocking and whispering is Samuel, waking me up with the loving touch of a father. I feel a small pang of bitterness and homesickness as I sit up and rub my eyes.

My breath turns into a small cloud of vapor, and the tip of my nose feels like it frosted overnight. I clutch my shawl for warmth and yawn loudly as Samuel goes to untie our steeds. The two remaining horses, mine and Samuels, are tied to a rotting post in the barn. They whinny with annoyance at being stuck in this freezing weather, and I can't say I blame them. Even though spring is close, the cold weather is unrelenting. The dying embers of last night's fire are still somewhat lit, and I place my hands over them in an attempt to make them warm. When this doesn't work, I rub them together and puff on them.

I hear my stomach grow, and I grab it. Feeling sheepish, I ask, "When's breakfast?"

Samuel smirks good naturedly at my uncomfortableness. "I let you sleep in today, at the cost of food. Today's most likely our last day together, anyways. Wouldn't want to spoil it with raw meat, correct?" I snort for my answer, and the smirk turns into a full hearty laugh. The kind of laugh that makes your face crinkle up when you do so. And I can't help but join in.

Guiding the horses over, Samuel hands me the reigns to my white one, and we both lead them out of the barn. We're not far from a small town, and people are already coming down the paths leading away from the place. As we mount the beasts, my leg brushes against the sheath of the sabers. For the time being, I've pushed the Assassin's and the woman's warning into the back of my mind, trying to focus primarily on the safety of my friends until I reached the north and reunited with my father and my tribe.

The journey was slow, and terrifying. We kept off the roads for the first few days, fearing that someone, be it guards or townspeople, would recognize us and try to kill us. Or worse; take us back. After we traveled many miles, I finally felt myself relax. No one had followed or confronted us, and I can only assume that the slaves who stayed behind originally had gained the sense to leave as well. That would mean that no one could find out where we had gone. The only people we had to avoid were the redcoats, patrolling the paths through the forests and towns with much more vigilance then the plantation's guards. We spent our nights in disused barns or musty caves, and I hunted enough meat each day to get us by.

As we continued farther and farther north, other slaves began to stray from our group, each heading for a different destination. Some went west, where there would be less British influence. Some went towards the sea in hopes of stowing away for other countries. Jenny took Robert and Sarah to a town called Philadelphia, where she knew it would be safe for her family. I still miss her; she was like the mother I never had. Except for Methoataske, perhaps. And my heart cried out each night for my friends in the hopes that they all found what they were looking for.

Eventually, it was just me and Samuel, alone with our two horses. But I knew that our journey together was going to end today.

Samuel breaks his horse into a trot, and I follow suit, kicking up snow as we go. We take the path this time, leading straight into the small town. Some people give us nasty stares, and the guards mutter something under their breath. But no one confronts us, to my relief. We make it through the town without any trouble. Men and women struggle to clear away the snow from the ground as we travel past. I pull the reigns to slow my horse back into a walk, and Samuel does as well. Side by side, we continue down the road as it cuts through farmland. In the distance is the start of a large dense forest.

We stay silent. I don't know what to say, and I doubt he does either. I fiddle with my hair, and finally, Samuel breaks the quietness with a question sharp enough to pierce ice. "So, this is the end, I suppose?"

I close my eyes and try to swallow, but my throat is too dry. "I guess." I respond with a quiver in my voice. Samuel narrows his dark eyes and nods.

He continues to talk as the horses go forward. "We've known each other for a long time, Ava. But I need to go and live my own life now, and clearly you do too. Even though we ar-… _were_ slaves, it seems we are both destined for different things."

I feel my face start to burn up. I can tell the tears aren't very far off. "What will you do now?"

Samuel scratches the ever graying hairs on his head, looking thoughtful. "Well, sailing can make good money these days. And I've always wanted to see new places. So…" I nod in understanding, and he falls silent again. The only sound is the chirping of birds and the clomping of our horses.

Just before we reach the edge of the forest, there is a fork in the road. One route turns to the left, up to the trees and to the north. The other continues straight on a path, past a large pile of boulders, which will most likely take you right to the sea. I grip my reigns tighter until my knuckles turn pale. Samuel now looks visibly upset. We halt just before the breaking of the paths. Carried on the wind is the salty smell of the ocean, and I breathe in it's less than comforting scent.

I exhale loudly. Samuel bows his head. We then both stare at each other in with looks that showed both age and fear. A single tear slips out of the corner of my eyes, and I notice that Samuel's look wet as well. We grip each other's hand in a firm handshake and then pull in for a hug. I found that Samuel gives the best hugs, ones that make you warm and comfortable and safe. I had known him, stood by his side for so many years. We shared so many memories, some fond, some horrible.

And now I was leaving all of that behind.

"Good luck, Ava." I hear his breath whistle through my ear. I give him my best wishes in return. When we break away finally, I rub my eyes to stop the tears. Samuel looks away, and I can tell that he is feeling the same way. As far as I know, Samuel never had any children. Saying farewell must be hurting him as much as it's hurting me.

"Good-bye"

"Good-bye"

Two words. Both so quiet that the other could barely hear them. But they meant so much more than words spoken. To us, these words meant '_Be safe. I love you. Take care.'_

With a flick of the reigns, Samuel started his horse again down the path, away from the forest. He moved slowly at first, almost like a dream. With one last glance back at me, he spurs his horse into a canter and races away down the road and behind the rocks. Snow and dust is still settling on the road after he is gone. The only thing left now are the hoof prints of his horse embedded in the white ground. I'm all alone. Everyone is safe, and now I have to go home as well.

Gently, I turn my horse to the left, towards the rest of the frontier, and set it into a trot. I wipe a few stray tears as the woods surround me with blotched shadows and peaceful tranquility. The dense trees and landscape seem to calm the turbulence in my head, what with the Assassin's and the Templars. Here, I feel at peace. I'm so close to home that I can hardly sit still on my saddle. The sabers bounce at my sides with each step. My unhappiness over Samuel's departure is replaced with weary excitement, but it still doesn't dull the sharp pain I feel in my heart.

Some recoats patrolled along the roads in sizeable groups. Fortunately for me, their drummer was more of a help than a hindrance. When I hear the banging of the loud instrument, I stroll off the path into the trees to avoid their presence, then continue on my way. Once or twice, I passed other people. One man was one a horse, and shot me a look of disdain before continuing on his way. The other time I passed a woman with a small child. The woman ignored me, but her small daughter flashed a small smile as I briskly passed her. As I left, I could hear the child ask her something, most likely about me, but the words were too far and muffled to make out.

I traveled through the trees and on the road for most of the day. The sun came out around midday, beating down on my back and neck. Prey strayed across my path. Once, I saw the reddish pelt of a fox, and the large bulk of an elf. I heard the growls of wolves in the distance. It wasn't until I came up upon another town, a bit larger than the one I passed through this morning, that I saw the large stark rock peeking out on the horizon. Just through the town and into the surrounding woodland was, unmistakably, the LakeRock, rising up off the ground. At this point, I could reach it before nightfall.

I could feel my heart leap in my chest. I broke into a large smile and urged my horse on faster. _After living more than half my life away from home, I'm going to see everyone again! My father, Methoataske, even all the older children and adults. I can be a healer again!_

I guided my horse down a hill leading to the town's outskirts, and proceeded along the road and across the wooden bridge that ran over a river. The clomping of the horseshoes on wood was like thunder in my ears. Those closest to the bridge turned nonchalantly to see who was coming into town. Someone spit on the ground and walked away, but I could hardly care. I was just halfway over the bridge when I heard the gunshot. Then I felt the warm spray of blood on my calf.

My horse cried out with pain and started to fall before I could even turn my head and process what was going on. With a sickening thud, it collapses with all of its weight on my left leg. Pain shoots through my body and I let out a shout of surprise. The people who had been at the edge of the bridge have now backed away or run in terror. Hurt, dizzy, and confused, I focus on tugging my leg out of my dead horse as fast as possible and running away when I did. If I could still run. However, a couple of excited shouts divert my attention.

Guards, not redcoats but clearly well trained men, were trotting towards me on mares of their own. They all dressed with dark coats and wore tri-cone hats. They were certainly well off, that much I could tell. All of them were reloading their muskets from horseback, but the one in front tossed his aside and pulled out a small pistol. Dismounting, he walks over to me and bends over my body as I wiggle under the dead weight of my animal. I felt the blood drain from my face as he levels the gun at me, pointing it right over my forehead.

"I'm gonna ask once, half breed." The man spoke in a gruff voice. "Where's the ball and chain?"

My blood ran cold. I push harder on the animal on top of me. I avoid looking at him as I gave my response. "I don't know what you mean."

"Ah, but I think you do." A foot came down on my head, knocking it back and forcing me to look upright. The man's eyes were cold and hard. They reminded me of hardened mud in the summer. "People 'round here told us that you killed one 'of our comrades. Down in 'Virginy', right? An' ya nicked somethin'. Somethin' valuable."

It took me a second to realize that these men were Templars, and I feel my insides coil with fear. These men must had gotten word that I killed Trevor, and decided to hunt me down as revenge. Or maybe they just wanted the half-moon amulet, which was safely tucked away in my boot. But it was in the boot on my trapped leg. I had no way to reach it if I wanted to. Panicked, I squirm around harder. "I-…I don't know what you're talking about. Please, let me go!"

But the lie was utterly unconvincing. Even I didn't buy it. The man shook his head and cocked his pistol again. '''Fraid that fibbin' ain't gonna cut it, savage."

I shut my eyes, ready for death. The pierce of the gunfire sounded, but it didn't hit me. Then, I heard a grunt of pain and the thud of a body hitting the ground. I took a small peek, and was met with the head of the man who had held the pistol. Face down, and blood was already pooling around his head. No one else was around me, and his Templar brethren cried out with confusion. They wheeled themselves around, looking for whoever committed the kill.

I seize their momentary distraction to begin my squirming again. After some more struggling, I finally free myself from underneath the horse. Standing was not an option at the minute, though. My leg hurt too much, but to my relief it was not broken. Maybe sprained or badly bruised. But as I fiddled with the strap of my sabers on the saddle, my time had run out. The attention of the Templars was turned back to me. Muskets were pointed directly at my heart.

I knew that this was the end. Until I heard the sound of thunder on the bridge.

Almost instantly, standing in front of me was a chestnut steed, saddled but with no rider. Clearly, it had raced to my rescue, but where was the mount? The unspoken questions in my head were answered as I heard a scream from behind the horse. Wrestling on the ground with one of the Templars was a figure clad in white. He must have jumped from the horse and knocked his opponent to the ground. I see the flash of the blade, and the struggling ceased as it connected with the throat.

_Léon? _My mind flashes back to the African American Assassin. Could his spirit be protecting me? So I could finish my mission I unwillingly took on?

The figure in white stands in front of the guards with his back to me now. To my disappointment, I can tell it's not my dead friend. The robes are a different design, accented with blue instead of red, and his hands are far too pale to be Léon's. In one hand is his drawn hidden blade, and the other holds a pistol. I finally unclasp the sabers and, wincing, I pull myself to my feet. I wobble slightly, and I'm forced to use the neck of the chestnut to steady myself. The Assassin then turns his head to me. Flashing a cocky smile, he waves his hand back at me.

"Run! I'll hold these guys off!"

Instinctively, my feet begin to race in the opposite direction. Every step for me is agony, but my pain tolerance is high. I should have taken the chestnut. As I slip the strap of the sabers over my head and shoulders, I hear the bang of the muskets. Throwing my hands over my head, I feel nothing hit me. Pushing up snow as I go, I hobble off the road and into the safety of the woods across the bridge. As soon as I deem myself far enough away, I scurry up a tree. If running was hard, climbing was near impossible. Each leap cost a great amount of effort, and landing on my injured leg made it feel as though it was on fire.

Eventually, I stop. I can't be too far from the lake at this point, and I sit down on a branch to gather my breath and my thoughts. I adjust the sabers so they are comfortable on my back. From my boot, I pull out the amulet. If this is what that was all about, I didn't want it to leave my sight for the rest of the journey. As I pull it over my head and tug my braid through the leather string, my mind turns to the mystery boy.

From what I could tell, he was young. My age maybe, perhaps a few years older. He certainly seemed skilled, and sure of his abilities. I shoot a glance back the way I had come. Did he defeat all those men? Or did he die? My injured leg swings back and forth as I ponder this. There was no way in hell I was going back to help him. Perhaps that seemed selfish of me, but if I did, I would most likely end up dead.

Straightening up again. I recommence my travels. I go slowly, and my leg suffers less damage. I was right when I said it was only just bruised, and I can grab some cattail from my father to treat it when I get back home.

Eventually, I stop my tree running and go back to walking on the ground. The LakeRock draws ever closer, and it's not far from sunset when I finally see the shores of the lake.

It looks just like how I remember it. Except the only difference is that the colonists that settled on the beach have left. Maybe my tribe mates drove them out? I can spot the Highpoint from my vantage point; that tangled tree trunk still juts out over the edge. The only problem is that I can't see anything on the other side. No smoke, no canoes, no people. It's silent. But I shrug it off.

I find a canoe and some oars on the shore after some careful searching. It's a bit rotted, but usable. Crossing the lake is no trouble either. I side over the glassy surface smoothly and easily. A beaver swims alongside me for a while before veering away to join its friends. At the other side, I abandon my boat and walk the familiar paths up to my home. After a while, I reach the walls. There's nothing still. No sight, no sound, no smell. I feel a twinge in my stomach that something is wrong. Walking into the village makes me gasp.

There is no village anymore. It's completely destroyed. Broken logs lay scattered around the ground, splintered and unusable. The center of the village shows the footprints of many people walking to and from a place to scavenge whatever is left. My lungs forget how to take in air again. I'm about to poke through the remainder of the rubble when I hear the sounds of brisk footsteps behind me. Thinking fast and expecting a guard, I pull out my flint knife and spin on the spot.

Behind me comes an old man with an axe. Not a battle axe, but rather one that is used to chop wood. Slightly embarrassed at my jumpiness, I tuck my knife back into my sash, but the man isn't undaunted. He just continues on his way as if I wasn't here. After a few heartbeats, I tap him on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir? What happened to the tribe of natives that lived here?"

Without looking at me, he responds. "You with 'em?" I nod before I remember that he's not looking at me.

"Yes. I've been away from home for a while."

A grunt. I guess that means understanding. "Well, missy. The tribe here left for the west. You'll probably find them 'round… I don't know where, actually. Just head west. Maybe you'll run into them." With that, he swings his hatchet down on the remains of my home, cutting it cleanly through. Disheartened, I thank him and head back towards the lake.

The sun has set for real in the west, turning the sky to ink as the moon emerges. It's full tonight, and I don't feel tired, so I set out again to the west. Away from the lake. If they had already gone away from this place, who knows where they will be? They may even all be dead by now. I continue on, alone, as the moon shines its lonely light on my face.

I walk a couple more miles well into the night before I decide that I should either hunt, or settle down for the night. My surroundings are unfamiliar, and this is farther than I have gone when I was younger. I only have two remaining arrows left, and I make a note to try and get some more when I do in fact find home. My trek begins to lead me uphill, past a large roaring waterfall. The spray of the water is refreshing, and I feel slightly revitalized as I climb up and see what is ahead of me.

To my surprise, when I glance around at my surroundings, I'm near a wide and magnificent river. Farther on my side of it is another forest, with trees and branches even more tangled then the ones I'm used to. On the other side is the exact opposite. Large fields are glowing in the moonlight. Smoke rises from over the hills. I stick my hands in the river to get a drink, and the water is icy cold.

The outskirts of the forests ahead of me looks like the perfect place to hunt and rest. Before I can go too far, however, I hear a volley of distant gunshots. Followed by a cry of pain. And then a splash.

Whipping my head around, I try to pinpoint the sound. They were too far from my position to be aimed at me. But they must be close by, or else I wouldn't have heard them. Heart pounding, I sprint as fast as my injured leg would allow to the water's edge. I clamber up on a sizeable boulder to get a better view. On the distant shore, I can see people with smoking guns scanning the water. But for what?

Suddenly, the water ripples, and a body surfaces through the dark water. The body is flailing and sputtering, and clearly has been shot. His wound is hampering him in such a way that he can't stay afloat, and the rapids push him closer to the waterfall.

_If I don't jump in, he'll die for sure, and if he doesn't, he'll be at the mercy of whomever is on the other side._

Taking a deep breath, I use a running start and dive into the river. The cold water nearly knocks the wind out of me, and I come up to the surface, only to find myself in a battle with the current as it pushes me towards the edge as well. The flailing commences, and frustration already has set in when I swim farther out into the depths.

I'm fortunate that I remember how to swim. Using my arms to dig forward through the water, I make my way to the body towards the middle of the rapids. The stronger my movements get, the more confident I feel myself become. I grab one arm and pull the body over my shoulder. As I do, I catch a flash of white, and a hood. I groan inwardly as I cope with the fact that I've encountered another Assassin. But that is a problem to deal with at another time.

To my left, the river breaks away into a smaller stream, cutting through the middle of the forests where I was heading originally. I take a deep breath again and begin to propel myself forward, kicking with my legs and keeping a secure grip on the Assassin with one arm. My mouth begins to fill with water as the extra weight I possess begins to drag me down. Finally, my feet touch the sandy bottom, and I use the last of my energy to propel myself into shallower waters near the mouth of the small stream. The injured man is balanced unevenly on my shoulders. He seems to have lost consciousness; one of his sides is stained crimson from the gunshot wound.

Glancing back at the soldiers, I can see that they are marching around the river, no doubt trying to find a place where it is shallow enough to cross without getting drenched like I did. I most likely won't have a lot of time before they find the way around. Narrowing my eyes, I turn forward and stagger a few steps; away from the river and into the unknown.

The water of the stream doesn't even come up to my boots, and I stay in it as to not leave any tracks. I go slowly at first, focusing on balancing the wounded Assassin on my shoulders. My injured leg begins to ache again as the forests unfold around me.

After a while, I come to a break in the river. One side, leading to my right, is level, but the other side on the left is the end of a waterfall. I begin to despair as I balance my choices. Rescuing this man was a stupid idea was my first thought. Maybe I should leave him here to be eaten by wolves instead of throwing out my back carrying him. I snort at myself, slightly amused at my thoughts, before turning my thoughts back to the matters at hand.

Even though it is safer, finding a way up the waterfall would leave footprints in the snow, and that would render my efforts to be hidden useless. But taking the level path would make us too easy to follow, and we would be discovered for sure. As I ponder this, I notice a small fallen log poking out of the sides on the right fork, and I get an idea.

I hurry towards what may be my savior. I take one step, then another up onto the trunk. Going slowly, I balance myself and walk across the log, which stretches in the direction of the left path, up towards the top of the little waterfall. When I jump down, my footprints are too far away for anyone going down the right path to notice. _At least, I hope not._

Now that I'm on the path I want to be on, I'm greeted with sheer rock faces. Steep, high cliffs surround us on both sides as I step over stones and duck under fallen trees. Farther down the stream is a small indent in the cliff face, sheltered from wind and wandering eyes. I nearly missed it when I first came upon it. It is surrounded by large pieces of broken rock, and out of the water as well. Now fully exhausted, I drop the body of the Assassin down on the small strip of shore and collapse next to him. Growing next to me is some moss, and I rip a clump of it off to clean the wound in his side. His expression is still pained, but there's nothing I can do for him at this point. If he doesn't die tonight, I'll hunt and forage for herbs as soon as I wake up. My eyes are dropping, and I feel myself sink into a colorless dream as the warm winds begin to blow.

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**One's Connor, one's another vigilante. But which one is which? You will never know! *Evil laughter* (Just kidding.)**

**Yay! Almost to 10 chapters. Just a few more to go!**

**Thanks for reading, as always.**


	9. Forest of Twisted Trees

**Hello again! Thank you all so much for the comments, favorites, and reviews! I appreciate them all so much, even if I hadn't really made it clear.**

**Remember that one time in chapter four when I complained about the length of the chapter? Yeah, well this chapter is a lot longer than that. Dear me, what am I going to do?**

**As always, I don't own Assassin's Creed, just my OC's. Enjoy!**

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_March 7__th__, 1773_

I woke up the next morning hurting not only in my leg, but my back as well. Carrying the Assassin on my shoulders had made my spine feel so sore, like I had slept on a pile of rocks. Which I essentially had. It was hardly dawn, and the tiniest bits of light were barley reflected off the river lapping at our feet. I noticed with a pang of joy that some of the snow had melted off the earth and formed small pools as they ran into the stream. The water was refreshingly cool as I drank some from my hands. Spring was certainly on its way. But I had more pressing matters to deal with at the moment, so I couldn't pleasure myself with the sweet breeze and the birdsong.

Those guards I saw last night must have not have found us, I infer with relief. My body releases some of its tension as I flip myself over and crawl to my cargo from the river.

The man at my side doesn't stir as I unbutton the front of his robe and press my ear to his bare chest. The quiet thump of his heart told me that he had survived to see another day, and I let out the air I had held, seemingly, all night. But he wasn't safe yet. His breath comes out in small uneven gasps, and he was starting to burn up with fever. His wound wasn't bleeding or infected, thank God, but everything could change if not given proper care. And I didn't even want to start thinking about extracting the musket ball still lodged in that puncture.

With some of the snow clear, finding common herbs would be easy. Certainly the ones I need could be simple to come by. Cattail grew all year round, and plantain grew easily everywhere.

My shirt and pants were still damp from my near drowning last night, and the soles of my leather boots squished unpleasantly as I stood. Extremely disgusted, I strip off my top, leaving me with nothing but my breast bindings and the necklace to cover my chest, and laid them on a flat rock to dry once the sun came up. After that, I took off my boots, bow, arrows, and my sabers. No way was I taking off my pants or sash. Anyone seeing me without a shirt was mortifying enough. I kept my knife as well; leaving without any weapons would be stupid, and I had done enough stupid crap for one day. Even though I knew my unconscious patient couldn't see me, my face burned with humiliation at my nakedness as I hopped through the river in my bare feet and vanished in some bushes.

Cattail for bruising and pain. Yarrow for bleeding; there will be a lot of that once I figure out how to extract the ball from his flesh. Chokecherry berries for dulling the feeling in his side. Plantain for infection. These were all the herbs that I needed, and would be the easiest to find. And last of all, dock for purifying the blood. That was the rarest, yet most essential plant; if I didn't treat the wound with it, lead poisoning would be eminent. One time when I was twelve, an older slave by the name of William was shot in the leg by a task master. Even after we removed the ball, he developed the disease. He died within a week. The symptoms were fast appearing, disgustingly gross, and incurable once it had begun. Finding dock had to be my number one priority.

I hadn't even left earshot of the gushing stream before my stomach let out a huge growl, causing a few rabbits to scurry out of the bushes with squeaks of terror. The small animals only made it hurt worse. I hadn't eaten anything all day yesterday, and I was feeling stiff and irritable because of it. _I'll hunt as soon as I find these stupid plants. _

Cattail, as I predicted, was an easy find. It was growing along the edges of a small frozen pond. Now that some of the snow had melted away, clumps of plantain were sprouting at the bases of the twisted oaks in the forests, so they were simple to find as well. The chokecherry berries started to grow in the winter and were fully ripe around its end, so they were perfect for harvest once I found the bush. The yarrow I was looking for was only a sprout in a clump of brambles, but the leaves were ready to pick as well. After some careful searching, a fully flowered bush of yellow dock was rooted just above the river on a rock ledge. Some of the leaves were chewed, but the rest of it was still usable. I complete my foraging with a decent pile of damp moss, and I make it back to the Assassin with a slightly rejuvenated, if not somewhat hungry, mindset before the sun was much farther across the sky.

My friend's condition didn't exactly change during my time away. To start, I soak a piece of moss in the stream and lay it across his forehead to cool his fever. I'm pretty annoyed at the belt of weapons that keeps interfering with me, so I unbuckle it and discard them to the side as well. I'm forced to use another piece of moss to clean the wound again. As I mash up the yarrow on a flat rock, I examine the puncture fully. Still no infection; the wound is bright pink with no pus and no irritation. The musket ball is still in there, but it's not that deep and as far as I can tell, it hasn't hit any vital organs. I can't use my fingers, but I can probably us a stick to leverage it out.

Once the poultice of yarrow is complete, I cross the water again and snap a stick off the branches of the oaks. I choose one that is long and sturdy, perfect for this operation. When I get back to our hideout, I strip off some of the bark from the end with my knife and insert it into the wound. After it's in place, I pump up and down to wiggle the ball out of the depths of his body. Blood starts to flow again, and I wrinkle my nose at the smell as it sluggishly exits the pink flesh of the Assassin's thigh. His face screws up with pain and uncomfortableness, and I my heart twists with sympathy as the bloody musket ball finally works its way out of his flesh and drops with a pitiful thud onto the sand. I toss it into the bushes impatiently and turn back at to the man to find that his wound was gushing again. I smear some of the poultice into the hole and the rest onto another clump of moss. Pressing my bloody fingers onto the green plant, I hold it to the skin to keep constant pressure. With any luck, the bleeding will stop soon.

The smell of blood transports me of the scene in the floor of the cavern back at the plantation. With a life ebbing away under my palms. I felt the blood stop pulsing as his life bled through my fingers. The smell of blood…the darkness… I bite back a scream as the red liquid keeps pooling from so many dead bodies, rising steadily. To my thigh, my chest, my neck, filling my mouth with blood… I'm drowning!

My eyes snap open, even though I'm not sure when or why they closed. I'm sweating and taking strange gasps. My lips are dry, and I flick my tougne to soften them. My hands are hanging at my sides, and I quickly replace them over the wound.

_If it's truly my destiny to kill, then why can't I even handle taking care of an injured person?_

At last, when I felt the wound stop bleeding, I mashed up the rest of the herbs, minus the dock, and pressed them into the wound again to keep out infection and reduce the minimal swelling. They must have stung, but the Assassin's pain tolerance must had been incredible. Instead of shouting, not uncommon for this medicine, he merely gritted his teeth and mumbled a few words I couldn't catch. Not that it would have mattered; he appeared to be speaking in another language.

Last of all, I grind the dock up and soak up the juices with damp moss. Dock stung the worst of all, and I can't say I blamed him for hissing like a hurt bobcat when the mixture was squeezed into his wound. I flushed it out after the medicine had set with more water, placed more moss for padding, and then I was ready for dressing. But I had one problem; I lacked any bandages to hold the moss in place. Somewhat saddened at realizing I had no other option, I untied my red sash, the one I had worn for so long, and wrapped it around his broad waist. Due to his gargantuan size, it only wrapped around twice, and I tied it tightly in a makeshift tourniquet.

Leaning back, I congratulate myself. By now, the sun was fully rising; sending light spilling in through the trees and in between the cliffs where we rested. The rocks gleamed so brightly they seemed almost white. My stomach lets out another large growl, and I clutch it in embarrassment. As if in response, his stomach responds with equal ferocity, and my mortification dissolves into small fits of laughter.

I giggle for a little while longer before I speak to him, even though I know he can't hear me. "You must be hungry too. Oh, well, I was going to hunt anyways. I'll bring back something extra."

My mind made up and free of worry for the first time in a long time, I pull my shirt back on and I grab my bow to hunt something for the both of us.

The giant oaks remind me of the large tree back at the manor where I stashed my weapons. Limbs twist in every direction imaginable. I can't help but feel like a giddy child again as I place a hand on the sturdy trunk and admire its firmness and uniqueness. This place is foreign, strange, yet I feel safe here. Far from my troubles, it's like I've stumbled upon my own little haven. I'm free to go wherever I choose and go as fast as I wish. I make no effort to conceal myself at first as I tread through the spotty snow and dead undergrowth. So far, all I can find are herds of beaver at isolated ponds like the ones I found the cattail. Either prey here is seriously lacking, or I'm looking in the wrong places.

Growing irritable once more, I hustle my way into a tree and perch. Just as I used to. Bow drawn, I wait for what seemed like an eternity before a rabbit finally ventures out into the open, and I waste no time in killing it. When I investigate it, I notice that it's rather scrawny, and I feel a twinge of annoyance as I figure that I'll have to find another.

As I examine my catch, I hear I noise directly to my right. Immediately, my first thought is that it's more food. Perhaps a deer or an elk. So I draw my last arrow and aim it steadily at the area where I heard the sound. Whatever comes out of those bushes, I'll hit it right in the heart. But nothing prepared me for what walked out of the woods.

It was the Assassin, clutching his side with one hand and holding a knife in the other. No doubt one of his hidden blades. His hood is up, and he's looking extremely feral. He's also panting; coming up here must have cost him a great effort, yet he doesn't seem to be in pain. Just tired. I lower my bow to show him I don't mean to hurt him, but he staggers forward to look me in the eye. His huge figure and heavy breathing unnerves me, and I back away a few steps as he comes closer. Eventually, he stops, for the effort must just be too draining.

Through his panting, I manage to hear some words. "What… did you poison me with?"

That certainly wasn't what I was expecting. He's not making any sense to me. "What are you talking about?" I ask, genuinely confused.

"My side," he continues. He takes his hand off his waist, and I notice that it was over the wound I had bandaged. "What did you do to my side? Why can I not I feel my side? Answer me!"

A picture forms in my mind, and I unexpectedly burst out in fits of laughter. The Assassin lowers his blade in confusion at my sudden change of attitude.

"When I healed you up, I used chokecherry to numb the pain in your side. I probably used a bit too much, but you thought I _poisoned _you? For the love of-, I don't _know_ any poisonous plants!" More laughter. Perhaps it wouldn't be as funny in a totally different situation, but for now I couldn't stop. The look on his face changed from anger to utter bewilderment before he stumbles, mostly likely from a lack of energy, and I stop my giggling. Now that he's out here, I'm gonna have to take him back.

Grabbing the rabbit with one hand and slinging my bow over the back with another, I place one of his arms across my shoulders to steady him as begin to I half guide, half carry him back. "I'll explain everything later." I promise him.

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We build a fire on dryer land not far from where we slept and roast the catch. After the rabbit is fully cooked, I split it up evenly between us. I make an effort to savor the meat and eat slowly, but my new companion eats as though he hadn't eaten in months. He finishes far sooner than I do, and brushes the bones away impatiently as I'm still eating. He stares at me with his eyes, which are a deep brownish-gold color, as I eat. And he keeps the same expression, one that makes it seem like he has never laughed in his entire life. No doubt he has a lot of questions to ask me; I have a lot to ask him as well. But for now, I'm studying him and working out what things I want to ask. Just from observing, I can tell that he's not much older than I am and that he's some form of minority. But I can't place my finger on which one. He could be a Native, but at the same time he could be an Italian or Spaniard. The bow on his back wants me to believe the former, but I'm just not sure.

When I'm finally done, I kick out the fire with the little snow around us. He's tampering with his bandages when I sit back down, so I'm forced to smack his hand away. Yet, he gives me a look that plainly says "Why would you do that? I'm fixing something." I roll my eyes as he continues with the fiddling.

My patience is starting to wear thin. "You know, I'm pretty sure I knew what I was doing when I healed you. Can you not mess with those?"

The Assassin closes his eyes as if I was a bothering insect he wished would just go away. "I want to see what you put into my wound, exactly."

"I already told you, I'm a healer from a tribe of natives. I know that I didn't poison you." I finally run out of kindness. I take his hand roughly and put it on his lap, patting it with feigned sympathy. "It's just some herbs for the pain and to make sure you don't die from infection. Nothing drastic."

"Then why don't I have any energy?"

"You need to gain that on your own."

Perhaps he sensed that our fight was going nowhere, our maybe he was still tired, but he finally gives up the argument and becomes quiet. For the longest time, nothing happens until he finally speaks again. "What is your name?"

I'm drawing circles in the snow as he asks me. "Ava. And yours?"

Bu the Assassin doesn't answer my question yet. He lets out a strange noise that probably meant he was thinking. "You claim to be a native, but that is not a native name."

"I've been away from home for a while." I didn't want it to come to this, and I certainly didn't want to elaborate. Fortunately, he seemed to notice my reluctance at the topic and didn't pry. I was grateful for that.

"Connor."

"Huh?" I look up. Was he addressing someone else?

His gaze was directly at me, those hard eyes boring into my skin. "Connor. That is my name."

"Connor." I repeat this, getting used to the sound. At first, I'm mad at his hypocrisy. He certainly didn't have a Native name either, or maybe he just wasn't giving it to me. Either way, that was his business. "Listen, Connor, do you think you can help me with something?"

He leans back. "It depends on the question."

"Like I said, I've been away from home for a while. My tribe lived somewhere over there," I motion vaguely to the east, "but now they're gone and I don't know where they went. So tell me, have you seen a tribe of people living around here? Maybe farther west?"

He let out another thinking grunt, eyes closed as he tried to remember. Finally, they snap open. "Yes, I have seen a tribe. They live farther north, by a large lake. If you head that way, you will come upon it."

My heart suddenly felt lighter than it had in days. I break into a hopeful smile. "Maybe you can show me?"

"No." Came the simple reply. Connor started to get up, using the strength he gained from the meal we just shared. "I should not be here. Redcoats patrol these woods; it is a miracle we have not run into any yet. Travelling would be too dangerous."

I stand up myself to steady his balance. I try to find an argument. "We can go by the trees?"

"My answer is still no. I appreciate your help, but I must be going." Pushing me back, he takes a few unsteady steps towards our rocky hideout. At first, I wondered why, but then I remembered he needed his weapons belt, which I had taken off to treat his injuries. Getting frustrated, I race after him and stand in front of Connor, stopping his forward motion. For a giant man, he sure looked like a small child as he halted and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Now hold on a second." I pause, collecting my argument and hoping to anything that I worked. "You have to help me. You owe me."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." I take the brief second of Connor's inquiry and continue. "I didn't _have_ to jump into a freezing river to save your life. I could have let you drown. And then you would be dead." Pause. "I saved your life; the least you can do is guide me through some trees."

Connor stared at me with, contempt? Doubt maybe? I couldn't tell. "Can you keep up?" I nod, not once breaking eye contact.

After a while, he sighs and rolls his eyes. "I will lead you north for one day only. If we do not reach the territory by nightfall, you are on your own."

This was better than I could have hoped for. Personally, I thought I would have to put up more of an argument. I'm so happy on the inside that I could shout. But I suppress my desire to hug the man. Instead, I settle for a simple thank you. Connor would probably break my neck if I did.

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After we had gather our supplies, we set out on our adventure together. At first, Connor insisted climbing the sheer cliff faces that surrounded us, but I stopped that idea immediately. Too much upward exertion could open the wound again. Instead, we found a fallen tree that spanned the stream and beyond, and he settled for that, albeit reluctantly. I let him take the lead as we jumped from branch to branch, over the dirt roads and the heads of redcoats. Connor was right; there _were _a lot of patrolling troops in the area. The twisted tree branches were so thick and sturdy that we made almost no noise as our feet hurried along the tops.

With this sudden burst of energy, my bruised leg became irritated again; matching with Connor's wound in terms of hampering our travels. For as huge a man as he was, he was incredibly agile, and I had trouble keeping up with him as it was, even without my leg problems. I was beginning to notice a pattern with these Assassins; huge men with dainty feet. It seemed like a weird combination. Sometimes, if he felt like he was going too fast, Connor would slow his pace for me or stop entirely. I didn't tell him about my leg, and he never asked. We stayed pretty silent throughout most of our journey.

We started maybe two hours before noon, judging by the sun's position. That would leave us about eight hours before Connor would abandon me in the middle of unfamiliar territory that was crawling with enemies. I was determined to get as far as we could and take in every piece of surrounding scenery I would be able to remember. I was so intent on looking to my sides that I didn't notice Connor had stopped. I plowed into his back as he stood on the bottom half of a large, sawed off tree. I would have fallen if not for Connor grabbing my collar, giving me the opportunity to steady myself. When I was safe, I rubbed my nose with fury. "What was that for?" But my question was disregarded as I took in the scene in front of me.

It was a large, open topped house. Or maybe it was a village? Whatever it was, it had a couple of buildings encased within a large wooden wall, and it was absolutely teeming with redcoats. Redcoats patrolled in the walls and out. Some guarded the entrance. Others conversed with each other. One carried a large barrel, probably filled with gunpowder, to a shed inside the walls. Spotted throughout the inside were trees, but for what purpose _they_ served, I had no idea.

I can't keep the fear and wonder out of my voice as I tug on the sleeves of Connor's robes. "What is that?"

Eyes flashed out from under the curved hood. "It is a fort." He answers flatly and tensely. "Fort Duquesne, to be exact."

My mouth falls open, and I let out a small noise that's a cross between amazement and horror.

Connor chooses to ignore this. "We have two options, Ava. We can either travel straight through the fort." He gestures to the trees on the inside. Looking carefully now, I can see a small path that might get us to the other side. "Or we can go around, and risk less chance of being captured by guards."

I've decided immediately. "We're going around." I command, rather forcefully.

Clearly, that wasn't what Connor had in mind. He balls his fists in what I assume is an attempt to keep his patience. "If we go that way, it will take much longer."

"I don't care." He glares at me, and I at him. "I'm this close to being back home. I don't want to risk getting caught by a bunch of meat-headed guards because you wanted to cut through fort swarming with them."

Our standoff doesn't stop until Connor finally looks away. With an exasperated sigh, he jumps down on a branch to the right. I take this as a sign that I won our little fight. Feeling quite pleased with myself, I follow him down.

But as we crossed over the main road leading to the entrance to the forest, our luck was gone. My leg slipped on the thin branch, and I began to fall. As I let out a yelp, Connor grabbed my arm and yanked me back to safety, sending snow cascading down to the forest floor. As I stood, gasping for air, I heard a bell chime from somewhere in the fort. Soldiers rushed out, armed to the teeth with muskets, swords, and axes. Both of us stood in horror, gawking like birds, as the men took up a firing position.

It was Connor who moved first. He grabbed me by the collar again, forcing my unsteady feet into motion. We skirted along the branches and moved into the safety of the forest just as I heard the gunfire. Trunks splintered as musket balls were fired, but nothing actually connected with us.

"The farther away we are," Connor spoke as we raced away, "the less chance they have of hitting us." I nodded, not really paying attention.

After a long time of sprinting and agony, we decided that we were far enough away from the redcoats so that they won't chase us anymore. Connor suggested we take a rest, which I agreed to wholeheartedly. I sat down in one tree, with the Assassin opposite me on another. Neither of us spoke for a while, both of us trying to catch our breath and massage our aching injuries. Connor's looks like it was paining him again, and I wished that I had taken some herbs with me when we started.

To my surprise, it's Connor who breaks the silence first. 'That was close." He mumbles, loud enough for me to hear. "But that would not have happened if you had listened to me."

I ignore his side comment and continue to rub my calf. Astonishing me yet again, he speaks to me directly.

"Why _did _you save me yesterday, Ava?"

I draw air and stop my action, trying to decide what words to say. 'I've had run-ins with the Assassin's before." I notice his flinch out of the corner of my eye, but I make no comment. "I agree with what you believe in, and if you didn't die, you'd mostly likely wind up in the hands of the Templars."

I've caught his interest now. "You say you have met another Assassin?"

"Yeah, for a while. He was a good friend."

"Was? What happened to him?"

My voice is barely audible now. "He died. I tried to save him, but it was too late."

The brief flash of hope I had seen in Connor's eyes vanished. He turned away and stared at the ground. "My apologies."

But I'm not finished with him either. "Connor, how did _you_ become an Assassin?"

He snapped his head back up to me, looking me directly in the eye. "I left my village after I was told my destiny by the spirits. They said that if I did not seek them out, my people would be destroyed."

So Connor _was _a Native. He certainly couldn't have been full-blooded; he was too pale. Like me, I suppose. The way he spoke of his destiny unnerved me. He seemed so…passionate. Yet, he seemed scared. I guess we all have something we never share, but it bothered me that he wasn't speaking the whole truth.

I snort inwardly at the mention of spirits. Like they would do anything to help. Why come to him, a boy living a peaceful life in a village, and not me, who had been suffering for more than half her life? It didn't make any sense.

"If you don't live with your village, where do you live now?"

Connor is snapping twigs off the branch he is sitting on, letting them call to the earth. "I live on a homestead northeast of here with an old man names Achilles. He was an Assassin as well, but he is too old to fight. He trained me when I came to his land."

I tilt my head in my confusion. "Homestead? Is that like a plantation?"

'What is a plantation?"

I crack a smile. Despite appearances to the contrary, this man was like a child trapped in the body of a bear. "Never mind."

"Was that where you were for 'a while'."

Connor's quoting the conversation we had this morning, at the fire. I bring my leg up to my chin and I feel myself sway a little. I grab a tree limb to keep upright. "Yes. But I left. I hated it over there. I just want to go home."

I hear a shuffle of leaves over to my right. Connor has stood up, holding himself precariously on the branches. "We are wasting time. We should be moving."

And so we do. Despite the fact that I felt like I had warmed up to the native, we still refused to talk as we kept going. By now, the light was fading, and I knew that if we didn't come across my village soon, Connor would indeed leave me alone in these woods. I struggle to fight the panic rising in my chest as we continue onward, farther north and away from any remote civilization, it seems.

But, at last, I find myself on the ground in front of a large cliff. I see a pathway is cut out of the side and rises around its face. The cliff itself drops off not far from our position to the left, leaving a large open gap. I am heading in that direction until Connor grabs my hand and pulls me back.

"I would not go that way if I were you." He advises sternly, eyes flashing in the half light. "Guards patrol that area."

I stare at him. "That's ridiculous. We haven't seen any guards since Fort Duquesne!"

But the bigger and stronger Assassin has clearly had enough of me. Holding his vice-like grip, he tugs me over to the side, despite my arguing, and partially leads, partially forces me up the path. When we reach part of the way up, he pulls back a large plant that I don't know of and reveals a large cave. It's dank and dark, and it smells like something has died in there.

Memories of my time in the slave trader cages come flooding back to me, and I find myself trembling and latched onto Connor's arm. He stares at me quizzically. "Are you afraid of the dark?"

"Not the dark." I correct him hastily. "Just small, dark spaces."

Yet, even that doesn't break his stoic demeanor. He walks in without hesitation. Since I'm still clutching his arm, I too am forced to go with him. In one last desperate attempt, I shout his name and pull back on his bicep. I feel a hand close over my mouth, and a let out a muffled scream as I'm pulled into darkness.

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**I think that I should mention this before I get any farther into Connor and Ava's relationship. They are NOT going to be getting together. And I'm not changing my mind. There are so many stories out there that are ConnorXOC (which is completely understandable, as Connor is the only main character in an AC game without a canon love interest, besides Aveline.) that are very well written, but I have had this story in my mind for about six month now, and I'm trying for a different angle. **

** If you like those stories, great! I think they are great too. Don't get me wrong, I'm not bashing those stories or the authors who write them. I just hope that you are all not disappointed with my decision and can respect it as well. And I'm sorry if this was misleading. Don't worry; Ava will have a love interest! Maybe not who you'd think though...**

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter!**


	10. Homecoming

**Hello again, y'all. Another chapter up and ready for your enjoyment!**

**I hope you all understand that in the first few chapters, Ava and her tribe mates were speaking in a native language and not English. I'm sure most of you figured that out, but in case you didn't, now you know!**

**As always, I don't own Assassin's Creed, but I do own my OCs. Please enjoy this chapter!**

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_March 7__th__, 1773_

Ever since I was slammed in that small dark slave box as a child, I have been terrified of similar spaces. Trevor, knowing this and eager to make me as uncomfortable as possible, would often slam me into the fruit cellar for hours on end if I didn't do as he pleased. Even someone like Samuel or Jenny would not coax me into an outhouse or a tunnel. Hearing all the torturing and pain from inside my cart. Feeling the sickness, the hunger. It felt like the darkness was eating away at my moral being. I just can't deal with the trauma I see in my head, even though I know it isn't real.

I'm swept off my feet as Connor drags me farther and farther into the darkness of the cave. The deeper we go, the more frightened I become. Before long, I'm kicking and biting down on his gloved hands, tasting the leather on my tongue and shouting muffled curses. One of my kicks catches him in the leg, and his grip on me loosens enough that I can pull myself away and scramble on all fours back towards the entrance. But Connor's hand flashes out faster than I would have thought possible. Grabbing my wrist, he tugs me continually farther into the bowels of the cavern.

"What is the _matter_ with you?" I can hear him snarl through gritted teeth as I fight him even harder.

After a few minutes of fighting, Connor has grips on both of my upper arms, leaving me incapacitated, as he leads me through the cave. No matter how hard I try, I can't shake free of his iron grasp, and I hang my head in submission, tears streaming down my face and spotting the rocks at my feet. He's muttering something in his native language, but I can't tell if it's meant as an insult or a comfort. Both of our breaths are coming out unevenly; tired from the day and the tussles.

At long last, I can see the cave walls as the dying sunlight signals the end. I begin to squirm in Connor's grasp again as I sense that freedom is not so far away. I'm dying to run out of this tunnel, but if anything, his grip becomes tighter. A voice is right in my ear as he speaks to me again. "It would not be wise to run away so suddenly."

_Was he threatening me?_

But as we step out of the cave and onto sunnier ground, I can see what Connor means. Less than a meter in front of the cave's end is a steep drop onto the dusty ground below. A fall that high could easily break someone's neck. I stare at the ground under my feet and draw in a few more strangled gasps. If I had dashed out so rashly, like I was planning to, I would've been flattened on the floor of the clearing.

All at once, I'm feeling grateful to the native for both guiding me and saving my life. Connor, sensing that I'm not going to be running away, releases his grip on my arms and gives me the chance to recuperate. I wipe a few stray tears; I'm feeling childish for reacting the way I did when Connor dragged me into that pass. The paranoia I felt has since settled down, but I know that it's still there. Ready to reappear should I re-enter a void such as that.

Once I deem myself to be calm enough to continue, I shoot a quick glance at Connor, telling him that it's time to continue moving. But he merely shakes his hooded head and points to the area below us. I turn around and truly take in my surroundings for the first time.

From our vantage point on the cliff, I can see everything. Spanning out below us is a missive lake, the color of a blazing flame at the day's end, with a small island floating in the middle. Tiny specks of light reflect and move around in the setting sun. There is more dense forest to my right and my left, and on the other side of the water, sheltered by an overhanging rock-face, are longhouses. Fires dot the ground and in some of the surrounding areas. I can see brown clothing as people shuffle around the village, entering longhouses or sitting by the fire to eat. I can't make out any voices, but I know that it's them. It has to be.

My heart leaps into my throat, and I'm so choked up that I can't speak. I break into a weary smile and turn around to face Connor. The Assassin is staring out at the scene, arms crossed, with the same expression he wore constantly, but his eyes sparked with awe in the half-light. "Thank you, Connor, for everything. And…I'm sorry."

His gaze snapped back to me. Instead of speaking, he gave a small nod of acknowledgement. He briskly turns around to head back the way we came, but stops. Spinning around to face me once more, he addresses me plainly and simply. "Good luck, Ava."

With that, he stepped back into the cave and was swallowed by the darkness. Connor's footsteps echoed on the hard stone walls as he disappeared. My debt was repaid, and I doubted that I would ever see him again. I did not linger; more important matters were at hand.

The stone ledge that I was standing on continued onto my right, and I followed it as it wrapped around the huge rock face and towards lower ground. My back was starting to ache again from carrying all my weapons, and my shirt constantly annoys me by catching on loose bits of stone and twig. I really wish I still had my sash, but Connor needed it more than I did, and I certainly wasn't getting it back at this point. When the path finally ends, and I'm back on solid ground, I take a minute to sit on the patches of grass where the snow has melted away. The sun is setting faster, and a chill burns my skin as I rest my body and ponder my reappearance.

I couldn't just walk into the village and announce myself; that would be suicide. I needed to either talk to my father of Methoataske privately, for they would be the ones who would have missed me most, and also the most influential. I wished I could change into something more native instead of these slave clothes I'm wearing. And strolling in with weapons on my back? I would be attacked instantly. I'm going to have to abandon them somewhere. Maybe come back for them.

For the first time in a few days, I think about the mystery woman's warning. Truth be told, I was running away from my so called "destiny". Turning my back on what she thought was the right path. But what good would I be? And I'm not who she thinks I am; I'm not a killer, and I'm just one person. But then again, so is Connor. And if he is an Assassin, was he working with anyone? Most likely not. Being an Assassin seemed lonely, and I was done with being alone.

I'm so absorbed in my own thoughts that I don't see the brush rustle until it's too late. All at once, I'm jumped by four of my own tribesmen. One manages to get behind me and hold my arms behind my back as another advances, brandishing a stone hatchet. The other two converse angrily in my native language, pointing while their friend walks solemnly over to me. I squirm in the first one's grasp, trying to make out a sentence to tell them I mean no harm. But no words come out; my mind is drawing a blank.

It hits me like a landslide that I don't actually _remember_ any of my native tongue. Even though my English has improved to near fluent, all the rest has been squeezed away to make room for the more important language. I doubt that these men know any English, so I can't converse with them that way either. I would've spit on the ground at my own incompetence had the situation not been so dire. With the tomahawk being raised above my head, I shout the only word that comes to mind.

"Tenskwatawa! Tenskwatawa!"

My father's name manages to stop the native in front of me from chopping off my head, thank God. His two friends shout at him angrily, and he responds back with a rage equal to their own. Once or twice, a hand flashes out in my direction. This fight goes on until the light of the day has fully died, and the swift breeze of the night flows over the ground.

Visibly trembling with fury, the two warriors nod their heads at last, and the tomahawk-wielding one grabs one of my arms, with the final man holding my other. Roughly, I'm shoved in the back and forced to walk down the slope towards the village. One of the two arguing men goes back behind me and disappears into the woods, most likely to look for more intruders that aren't there.

As we head towards the village, I notice various huts and dead fires along the way. We stop at one, and the warrior leading us strolls into the area and comes back with a pile of deer-skin. They must be hunting coops, where hunters cook and skin their kills to bring them back to the tribe.

By the time we arrive in the village, the grass has been replaced with snowy rocks. One large fire blazes in the center as I'm dragged through the village. My tribesmen chat with each other nonchalantly. I notice Methoataske sitting at the fire's head, talking with an elder woman. If anything, this place smells even more like whiskey than before; it's almost overwhelming. Empty bottles of the stuff are strewn everywhere, and I have to step carefully over broken glass as I'm forced to the center. One of the men holding me jerks his head to a young child, calling my father's name, and the boy gets up and runs to fetch him from his longhouse.

By now, everyone has stopped taking and is staring at me. The flames dance off their worried faces as Methoataske stands up and shouts something to my captors. Immediately, all my weapons are stripped off my back and thrown on the ground, coupled with the gasps of horrified natives. One of the men admires the bow before placing it gently on a rock next to the sabers. On the other hand, he smirks at my handmade arrows and snaps the remaining ones in half before throwing them onto the fire and tossing the quiver to a young women. I stay silent; I couldn't care less about the arrows, but I was rather fond of that quiver.

Heads turn as my father walks out into the clearing, no doubt summoned by the commotion and the little boy. He shoots a glance to me, but he doesn't seem to recognize his own daughter. I'm ready to wail aloud in frustration, but one of the warriors squeeze my arm so hard that I close my mouth. My father walks up to Methoataske and they share a few brief words, then both of them head over to me.

Methoataske's rough hand grabs my chin as she studies my face while my father watches from nearby. From what I remember, the sharp tang of alcohol was never on her breath when I lived in the village. Her hair is nothing but one huge bushy mat tied back with some string. She can hardly stand up straight. She runs a finger along my scared lip and speaks more words to my father before they both look at me expectantly. It takes a few heartbeats to realize that they want me to say something in my defense. I draw a shaking breath and speak words so silent they fell and were carried away by the breeze. "Kunishoka. It's me, father. Kunishoka."

As I expected, his eyes light up with recognition and amazement, but Methoataske's does not. From the look on her face, I could tell she remembered me, but it was like I was a pesky fly that kept entering her house and refused to leave. Her face sour, she spat a few words to my father and the warriors holding me before I felt the grips on my arms release. I'm thrown forward into my father, who guides me away from Methoataske's harsh gaze and the shocked voices of our companions. I'm so tired that I can barely keep my feet, and my father calls one of the tribesmen over to steady me and help me walk back against the cliffs and to the longhouse that I supposed was my father's.

I'm gently pushed onto my behind as we enter the spacious longhouse. Something begins to sizzle in front of the small fire. Its smell invigorates me, and I force myself to look up as a bowl of steaming liquid is poured down my throat. It burns the back of my mouth, and I cough and sputter, not accustomed to the natural taste of herbs anymore.

"It is skullcap in water, for strength." I hear my father whisper in English to me as the hot mixture slithers down my throat. I don't think I've heard my father ever speak English before; his accent is strange and makes the words almost undistinguishable.

When I'm done, I do feel much more awake than before. Everything has come back into a sharp focus. My father, albeit slightly more gray and decrepit, is exactly how I remember him as he kneels next to me. The piles of herbs are still stacked in the corner like how they used to be. The only thing different is this chill I feel; even winters at the LakeRock weren't this cold. I shuffle closer to the fire and warm my frozen hands. My father watches me intently, looking aghast. "Kunishoka?"

I had almost forgotten the sound of my own name. Turning my head, I stare at my father's exhausted face. He looked like the spirits themselves had come down to give him bread and butter. He also looked glassy and teary eyed. Standing up and moving with incredible slowness, he staggers toward me and picks me up off my feet, embracing me in his grasp. I can feel his dry racking sobs in my shoulder and hear his strangled words spoken into my shirt. I had never seen or heard my father cry. I tenderly embrace him as well and let a few tears slide down my face.

Even though Methoataske was acting strangely, it was comforting to know that someone had missed me, that I wasn't entirely forgotten.

After a few heartbeats, we break apart. I sit back by the fire with my father opposite me. He still looks at me in disbelief, as if he can't believe his daughter would return. "I thought of you dead, young one."

I gaze at him with tired amusement. "I'm not dead. Just taken away."

"What did they do to you?"

I hesitate for a moment. "They put me into slavery."

My father's eyes close for a moment, but snap open again. "You look…different."

I glance down at my clothing. Even though they are extremely dirty, the colors were certainly bolder than the more earthly colors of Shawnee clothing. My hair was still in the single braid as opposed to the double braids of some of my tribe mates, with the shorter strands choppy and unevenly hanging in my face instead of neatly combed out of the way or trimmed. Instinctively, I brush the strands behind my ears and shrug. My father just stares at me sadly. "You remind me of your mother, young one."

I've come to the fact that I don't love or hate my white mother. I just feel a burning indifference. I shrug again in answer, and my father chuckles again. "She would have hated your garments, however. Too dirty."

I crane my neck slightly to see my father in stronger focus. "Father, why is the tribe here? I mean, why move so far," I think back to earlier, with Connor telling me about the patrolling redcoats in the area, "and why so close to white men?"

He responds with an awkward turn of the shoulders. "Methoataske says we were too close to the white men. She said here was safer. So we move. And live. But we miss home. Our tribe mates feel uneasy at the warriors on the lakeshore, but Methoataske claims they are no harm to us."

I narrow my eyes. "Isn't that a decision for Clam Mother to make?"

My father's gaze hardens and diverts away. "Methoataske _is_ Clan Mother." Ignoring my gasp in response, he continues. "After her mother dies many seasons ago, her first decision is to bring the tribe here. To the 'shelter' of the cliffs. She claimed that we would be safer from outsiders. But it is too cold here. Nothing grows. There is always a chill. And we live in fear that someone will come to our village and destroy it from within.

_Like me._ I think with a shudder. _What will my tribe mates think of me coming back after nine years, wearing white man's clothes and having a white mother? Unable to speak their language. I'm more white than native now. And Methoataske knows it._

As if reading my thoughts, my father shakes his head. "She will not make you leave, Kunishoka. She cannot do that unless the man has committed a treasonous crime, or if the spirits command it. And I will not allow it. Methoataske is still upset from the death of her mother. I am sure she will be happier in the morning."

At the mention of morning, my vision sways slightly. The skullcap my father has given me has nearly worn off, and my exhaustion is coming back in a flood. Helping me to my feet, my father guides me to the stacks of herbs and lays me down on his bed; just a large pile of furs in the corner. After getting me settled in the warm pelts, he kneels next to me. "Sleep now. I will wake you in the morning."

I don't say anything, but my father seems to understand. Slowly, he stands back up and exits our longhouse. I'm feeling incredibly comfortable. Turning over, I glance at the piles of herbs next to me and list as many as I can recognize. The last thing I remember before passing out is to remind my father that we need more honeysuckle for headaches.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Instead of the peaceful sleep I hoped to have, my dreams were dark and disturbed. Flashes of light illuminated the darkened scenes of my troubled mind. Once or twice, I saw the flash of green eyes and heard the sound of metal on metal clashing violently in the blackness. I cried out to no avail, searching for the source of the commotion, but I was only greeted with more fighting. A sudden coldness pierced my skin like the blade of a sword, jolting me awake in a terror. After collecting myself, I realize that the burning on my flesh wasn't just my imagination

My father, cursing, is trying to pick my saber back up and sheathe it again. One of the swords must have fallen out and clattered onto my side. I blink with confusion, trying to make my eyes adjust to the pitch black. As my father finally works the sword back in place, I feel around the ground and find out that he has brought _all_ my weapons inside the longhouse, even the knife.

"Father, wh-"

"There is no time." He cuts across me quietly and begins to thrust my sabers into my arms. "Put these on."

"But, I don't understand. " It's too late, I'm already shifting the leather strap of the sheath on my shoulder. Something about the quiver in his voice, the panic, made my blood run cold. When the swords are in place, he hands me my bow, speaking quietly again.

"The spirits gave the elders a vision. They claim that a white fire would burn through the village and destroy us. After much debate, everyone assumed," a choking sound escapes from his throat, "it was you that was the white fire. Methoataske has ordered your removal at dawn."

I pale in the darkness. "Me? But why?"

Now I'm handed my knife. "I do not know, Kunishoka. Methoataske claimed that you were to be… too dangerous to live. And that is why you must leave! Go, and never come back! They will kill you if you return to our land."

"Can't you do anything? You're their spiritual healer, for God's sake! They will listen to you!"

Our little dance of preparing me stops. My father's hand, which was grasping my wrist, goes limp and falls to the ground. "I have tried. But the word of the elders is law."

"But I don't want to live alone! I just came home!"

"Better to live as an honest exile, then to die a traitor to your people."

In my dismay, something long and hollow is thrust into my hands. I don't recognize this weapon, and when I shake it, items rattle around inside. Taking it back after noticing my hesitation, my father fastens it onto my back with the rest of my weapons.

I'm forced to my feet and out the entrance of our longhouse. It is completely dark outside; everyone must be asleep, planning my murder at dawn. Moving silently, we follow the side of the cliffs to the right and reach the edge of the village. I can barely make out a small stream, which must feed into the much larger lake, and a couple of rocks spotting the riverbed. On the other side is forest. Nothing stirs ahead. It's silent. The only thing I feel is the pounding of my heart and the shuddering gasps from my father.

Desperately, I glance at him one more time. "What will you tell the tribe?"

"I will tell them that you have run away. That you did not want to live in our tribe anymore. You went to live with your mother. But be careful; they will send a search patrol for you. "

_That's just what they want to hear. _I think bitterly. _That I'm running away to rejoin the white men. That I don't belong here, when in reality, I don't belong anywhere. _

"Go!" My father hisses, shoving me lightly into the stream. "And for the sake of everyone, don't look back."

Fighting back tears, I nod. I feel horrible at my own submission, but if I get caught, my father could be punished as well. Or forced to watch his daughter get slaughtered in front of him. Closing my eyes to block out his face, I splash through the shallows and hare away into the trees.

Everything is a darkened blur as my feet pound on the ground. I don't bother with tree travel, it will only slow me down and I don't even care if the redcoats catch me at this point. My new item makes so much noise, I swear the tribe can hear my running away from here. My arms clip so many trees, and I stumble on loose undergrowth in my haste. Tears prick the corners of my vision, but I swipe them away. Crying won't do me any good; I need to get out of here. But where to go?

I don't know anyone or anywhere. I could always find Jenny, but that journey would take a long time. Samuel was probably long gone by now, and the other slaves were farther south. Then realization dawns on me; Connor's homestead. Despite not formally inviting me, no doubt he would take me in if I asked. I feel guilty about asking him for favors when he just helped me, but what choice do I have?

My boots squeeze uncomfortably as I sprint through a small river. By now, the sun is staring to peek through the budding branches, and I know I won't have a lot of time until Methoataske sends out a party of her most skilled warriors to hunt me down.

Why would the spirits send a sign to the elders to be rid of me? Are they mad because I have turned my back on them? I think back to the spirit woman from the crystal ball. Perhaps this was all her doing. To force me to join the Assassins in order to fulfil my "destiny." I want to scoff at her warning, to find some way to shrug it off, but I can't. She has won; succeeded in stripping away everything I ever cared about. I have no mother, I can't see my father, and all my friends are gone away with lives of their own. And here I am, running away from the people I used to call family.

Somehow, at the top of a sandy ridge after what seemed like years of running, I'm at the large river again. The very same one I rescued Connor from. Perhaps the path my father showed me was much thinner than the one Connor and I traveled, but that is another day's thought. I'm now farther upstream, I notice with a twinge of worry. The fields beyond are the perfect hiding spot for me. I know that if I find a way to cross to the other side, I'll be safe from anyone daring to follow me, but swimming across the river wasn't an option. It would take too long and I'll mostly likely die of hypothermia afterword. I needed to find another way get across, but safely and stealthily.

After I slide down onto the sandy shore, I pace nervously up and down the beach, looking for any sign of a less deep body of water or perhaps a canoe. After nearly a half an hour of searching, I spot a thinner strip of the river upstream. Reeds grow, signaling the shallower surface.

Screwing up my face, I wade into the current without hesitation. It comes up to my waist and tugs at my loose shirt, making it hard to stay upright. After a long time of slow moving, I finally reach the other side and collapse on a pale boulder, trying to gulp in air and rest my burning muscles.

I would much rather just lay there on the earth and accept my fate, or maybe stay there until my grow old and die, but my body has other plans for me. I swing upright and trudge downstream. Weak daylight is drenching me, and another warm breeze swirls through my sweaty hair, but I feel cold and hollow inside. I focus on moving my feet to distract myself from the pain welling up in my chest. Left, the right, then left again, then right again. But it doesn't work; I just end up staring at my boots as I travel alone.

I notice the path under my feet change from sand to dirt, and I stare off to my right at the open fields. Feeling empty, I turn and follow the new direction of the roads, away from the river and the forest of twisted trees. At the top of the hill, I'm greeted with the first good thing to come out of this whole ordeal. Horses are tied up and unguarded, just begging to be taken. However, they are also in the shadow of a massive fort, similar to the one Connor pointed out, but at the same time completely different. Large logs with pointed tops stick out of the ground instead of having normal walls. Suddenly filled with far more caution, I untie one's reigns and pull in away from its friends. After mounting it, I spur it into a trot and head towards the shore again.

Not far from the fields on my side is more forest; the frontier is full of them. This one is full of lush evergreens, alive and flourishing in the waning winter. As we enter the large canopy, I allow myself to fully break down as the beast gently guides me away from the life I wish I could have.

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**I have no idea if any of you were able to piece together the fact that Ava's father was running out of headache medicine and the fact that everyone in her village was drunk. Get it?! Haha! Ha...**

**If anyone thinks that this whole plot with Ava getting thrown out was kinda rushed and pulled out of my ass, that's because it was done on purpose. But that will be explained in another chapter.**

**I also may be putting up an FAQ on my profile because there is so much I can't explain in these little author's notes. If I do, I'll be sure to tell all of you!**

**As always, I hoped you enjoyed!**


	11. From the Side of the Moon

**God I cranked this chapter out fast. Maybe it was the anticipation of writing this one, because I've been wanting to for a very long time! I wanted this chapter to focus more on the decisions of our characters rather than just some action. It's more... mellow**

**As promised, I did set up that FAQ! It's on my profile. Just beware if you haven't read all the chapter's yet! Or you might be spoiled! (Possibly, I don't know). I'll try to update it as regularly as I can, but I start school tomorrow, so it may be kind of hard.**

**As always, don't own ACIII, just my OCs, yada yada yada. Enjoy!**

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_March 10__th__, 1773_

_And here I am again. Back to the beginning, I guess_.

I reflect with bittersweet sorrow as I stare off the cliffs. The sun is slowly dying in the west, sending fire burning from the heavens and spilling down onto the earth. A sweet breeze blows through my hair, out of its braid for the first time in what seems like months. My feet dangle off the edge of the tree trunk, threatening to spill me over and have me plummet to the water below me if I'm not careful. Even the nostalgic aroma of the flowers can't brighten the bleak dilemma in front of me.

After my escape from the tribe, I headed east. Sort of unconsciously, I found myself back at the LakeRock after a day of traveling. Instead of staying at my former home, torn up and desolated, I took my horse up to the Highpoint to stay temporarily. He's still with me, a strong mare with a dark brown coat. He just grazes when I tie him to the twisted tree overhanging the lake where I sit. For the first time in a long time, I take a break from traveling and caring about others. I undo my hair and wash it in the lake, even trimming it a little with my knife so it just reaches past my shoulder blades. I hunt with my bow. As it turns out, my father had given me a proper quiver complete with twelve arrows on the night I made my escape. The arrows rattled around as I ran, which is why they made so much noise.

But mostly, I just lie in the flower beds, drinking in their scent and wasting the day away. My weapons lay discarded to the side. I watch as the sun and the moon follow each other across the sky, each never being able to touch the other. And I lie awake in the evenings under the stars and question my existence. My destiny. And why the spirits want to take everything I care about in order to get me to accept it.

I've been here for two days, and as this day winds down, I know I can't stay here forever. I have to get to Connor's homestead, explain my predicament, and hope that he or this Achilles person is understanding enough to take me in. And perhaps train me. If the old man trained Connor, then why not me? And the sooner I do whatever the spirits have in store for me, the sooner I get to go home for real.

As I lay out my plan, a nagging doubt pinches the back of my head. But I push it away angrily.

I sigh out loud. I'm feeling tired, and I want to catch up on my sleep and wake early to reach the homestead, hopefully, in a few days. "We're gonna leave in the morning." I announce to no one in particular. The horse snorts behind me, but that's it. The only sound is the wind whistling through the budding leaves.

"Where to?"

I'm so shocked I nearly fall off the tree. Gasping aloud, I grab the end of the trunk to steady myself. Blushing fiercely, I twist my head around. Could the horse be talking? Was I losing my mind? Perhaps the smell of flowers was going to my head.

Instead of either, I'm greeted with an unfamiliar face, but a human nonetheless. He's wearing, to my displeasure, Assassin's robes, accented with blue and with the hood down. But's he's not Connor. His skin is so pale it's almost illuminating the twilight, coupled with shaggy blond hair and bright gray eyes. One gloved hand is on the horse's noses, whose tail waves back and forth with pleasure at being patted. A little ways away was a chestnut horse that looked oddly familiar.

What really got on my nerves was his cocky smile. The same kind the slave traders wore as they watched you get hauled away by strangers. The kind with one of the corners of the month higher than the other. My immediate impression of him was that he was some sort of self-assured show-off.

Angry at the fact that he nearly made me fall to my death and that he had the audacity to talk to me made my skin boil. Carefully, I make my way back to solid ground, pushing his arm away from my horse and rubbing it myself. In response, the mare lets out a sort of whine, but I ignore it as I turn again to talk to my new acquaintance. "And who are you?"

His gray eyes widen with fake disbelief. "You mean you don't recognize me?" His voice has a sort of accent to it that I can't figure out. It sounded like Irish.

I give him a hard stare. "Why would I?"

"Maybe you should give a little thanks to the man who saved those pretty green eyes from death a few days ago." With that, the edges of his month rise higher, up to his ears it seems.

I'm drawing a blank until I remember going across the bridge as I was heading to the lake. Where those Templars cornered me. But an Assassin had leapt to my rescue. On a chestnut horse. _This _was the man that saved me? This arrogant prick? I thought it was Connor!

But looking back, I blatantly recognize that same cocky smile. Connor would never wear an expression like that; he was far too serious. Come to think of it, I don't even think I'd seen the corners of his lips break up from that thin line of a mouth when I traveled with him.

My ears burn a little from being so hostile. Perhaps it was just my own prejudice, but he couldn't have been all bad if he went out of his way to save a runaway slave, right? Still, it's better to acknowledge with trepidation than open trust. Only a fool would be so open to a stranger. Especially a white man. And especially if you're a runaway slave.

"I guess I should." I start flatly. "…Thank you?"

"Don't mention it." The Assassin jerks his head and motions to the rock's edge. Getting the impression that he wants to talk more, I silently agree to sit with him on the end, so that both of our legs dangle over the sides. The cautious side of me is ready to break into a run at any moment, but he doesn't seem interested. As a matter of fact, he stares out into the distance, captivated by the view from the highpoint. And I let him take in the experience.

After a moment, he speaks again. "My name's Cory, by the way. Cory Whelan."

"Ava."

"You have a last name?" I shake my head no. He snorts through his nose heavily and pouts. Now that was an expression I had seen Connor make. "You know about the Assassin's, then?" I nod this time.

"Figures. Templars wouldn't have bothered chasing you so far unless you had somethin' important, or you were someone worth their interest. Which means you were runnin' from them." I clench my fingers on the grass as I nod again. The amulet is cold against my skin, hidden from sight under my shirt.

Cory, noticing my movements, drops the subject. "I'll ask again. Where are you headed?"

Still tense, I partly confess to him. "I was heading towards a place in the North; a homestead, I think it's called?" Cory's eyes spark with recognition, but he doesn't speak. "Anyways, I know someone who can help me," My voice quickly becomes heavy with unhappiness. "Because I'm going to train to be an Assassin."

"What?" Cory's voice becomes a squeak with surprise, his gray eyes as wide as moons. "That's a little sudden, don't you think?"

I can feel my heart heave itself against my chest. "I don't have a choice."

"Are you sure? Maybe you should think about it?"

"I've have time. A lot of time, actually."

Cory's mouth opens to say something, but he clearly thinks better of it. Instead of a smile, his mouth is a twig-thin line, like he's straining back something unpleasant. I lean my head closer to observe him. As innocently as possible, I ask, "Is there something you want to say to me?"

Closing his eyes, Cory lets out an exasperated sigh. When they open again, his eyes resemble the hardness of stone. "I know the place you're talking about. I went there once, with my mother, in the hopes he could train me himself. But the old man on the hill… Achilles, right? He turned me down. Claimed he didn't want anything to do with us anymore. That sorry excuse for an Assassin turned his back on the order. He shouldn't even be allowed to live anymore." His eyes snap up to me. "Do you know what he did? He abandoned the rest of us, my father included, to be slaughtered by the Templars! He just walked away, and he didn't have any regrets. These were his _friends, _Ava! His own friends were murdered, and he just sat in his old little house and didn't raise a finger to help us. Going there is a waste of time. Don't bother. Because if you do, he'll just leave you to die, like the rest of them."

On the outside, I'm expressionless, but inside, my insides coil and wither. Cory brings up on of his legs and rests his chin up on his knee, lost in thought. His blond hair flutters as a swift wind blows from the water.

On one hand, I know that Achilles trained Connor. But if Cory's story was true, and I knew that it was, then he must have done something to really impress him. Or maybe Connor just flat out lied to me and was trained by one of his parents or something. On the other, the sooner I can complete this 'training', the faster I can be done with my destiny.

I look Cory hard in the eye. "I have to try. Besides, I don't have anywhere to go anymore."

Spiting off the cliff, Cory picks himself up off the ground. "Tell you what, when he doesn't take you in, come find me. I live in Boston. Go to a place called the Green Dragon Tavern between six and seven at night. I'll be there; just ask the barkeeper." Brushing flower petals and loose strands of grass off his robe, Cory gives me an expressionless look. "Good luck, Ava."

And with that, he turned his back on me. Mounting his steed, he spurred it into a trot and guided it into the woods behind my little coop. I stared at his back as his white body melted into the various trunks of oak, ash and birch.

By now, the dusk had dissolved into a magnificent full moon, gracing the lake below with a large new island made of rippling snow in the middle of a splash of indigo. My eyes were ready to droop, and I stood up as well to move somewhere safer. Cory's words still rang in my ears as I sit back down and brushed off a space to sleep. Lying down in the bed of flowers, I close my eyes, ready to enter another dull dream. I sneeze as the long steam of something tickles my nose, and I turn over on my side to shrug it off.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I was just chasing the winds that I can't fathom. But if Connor could win Achilles over, then I can too. And can it hurt to try? If I succeed, I've gained myself a new home, perhaps even a new ally in Connor. As much as he was a stoic rock of solitude, we was an Assassin, and I knew him better than the one I just met. And he was a half native as well. That crosses my mind with uneasiness.

It's not that I hated white men, but after what I went through, how could I trust them? So far, I haven't met a white man I could put my faith in. Cory was the first person, man or woman, I had ever met who treated me like another human being. But was that out of sincere kindness or for the sake of getting information? It seemed like white men were all the same. They all wanted power, and wealth, and were willing to do anything to get it. That was the unwritten law of the colonies.

But am I much different? I have their blood flowing through my body as well.

_I guess we'll see. We'll just have to see…_

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

By the time I reach the homestead a few days later, spring is finally on its way. The snow has since melted away and new buds are on every tree. The air has the feeling of renewal in it, and rain showers aren't uncommon anymore. In fact, it rained most of the days I was traveling. Perhaps it was the weather, but I noticed a sharp incline in my attitude during my journey here. I was directed by a kindly old woman living near the LakeRock about where to go, and the rest wasn't too hard. Yet, standing on the mountain overlooking the homestead, I can't help but feel a little misled. From what Connor had told me, I expected his home to be huge and filled with people, but the only things I see below me are the tops of trees and a large river cutting through the property. Swallowing my feelings of disapointment, I jerk the reigns of my horse and allow him to clomp down the sides of the cliffs.

I soon realize that I wasn't entirely correct, however, about the homestead lacking people. Along the road, I witness two men cutting timber next to a large house by the river with a water wheel while two other women, I assumed their wives, looked on. Farther, I encountered a woman with a small cache of rabbits and deer, polishing her musket on a tree stump. She smiled and waved at me as I passed by, and I returned her acknowledgement with a nod.

I was just past her when two boys burst out from the brush nearby, holding out their hands in an attempt to catch the other. They couldn't have been older than ten. Panicked, I had to quickly pull the reigns back to avoid trampling them. Rearing up, the mare let out a wild neigh that made the two boys stop in their tracks and stare with terrified eyes. In the meantime, the hunter woman had come up behind me in to help calm the horse.

Grappling with the reigns, she turned to the boys. "What do you think you're doing?" She barked harshly in a heavy accent I didn't know. "You could have been stomped into the ground if it weren't for the fact that this woman reacted in time!"

The two children looked down to hide their ashamed faces. "Sorry, Myriam." I heard one of them mumble.

Myriam the hunter sighed as she let go of the reigns, the horse now calm enough to continue walking. "Go back to your parents. And don't race each other so far from home, for God's sake!" Nodding, the boys scurried away, going much more slowly this time.

Handing the reigns back to me, she let out another sigh. "Boys will be boys, I guess," she whispered to herself softly. I got the idea that her previous mean words didn't really reflect her personality.

Thanking Myriam, I snapped the horse back into a trot whilst she went back to her catches. Aside from nearly crushing two boys to death, I found this place likable enough. _The people here certainly seem nice, even if there aren't that many of them._

Before too long, I came up in front of a magnificent, if not slightly run down, brick building. It was about the same when I compared it to the Heathrow manor, except it looked a lot more in need of a renovation. Going up the path, I see a dusty carriage parked on the side of the muddy road, looking disused and ready to be replaced. Horse prints in the wet ground lead to the right, and I followed the path around the side to a small stable area.

It wasn't as big as the one I was used to. Only a few horses were inside the stalls, and they all looked old and in need of a good brushing. Dismounting, I stripped down my horse so that it didn't have anything to carry. Patting his neck, I strolled back out into the open.

A dog, large and deep brown, came up to me, sniffing curiously and wiggling his pointed ears. Before long, he is rolled over, waiting to be rubbed on the tummy, and I oblige. I can't help but smile even wider as I find his sweet spot, starting a flurry of kicks and happy whines. He tries to follow me after I get up and walk back to the front of the house, but goes back to the stables after I round the corner. No doubt to protect the horses.

At long last, I'm in front of the door. Wasting no time at all, I knock three times loudly on the solid wood and wait patiently on the porch.

From inside, I can hear the unsatisfied grumbling and the periodical thump of something wooden before the door opens. I'm greeted to an old black man, dressed in well-worn, yet fancy, clothes, a hat, and balancing on a cane. He looked at me with hard eyes that showed wisdom beyond his years. My first impression of him was that this wasn't someone you wanted to cross.

_He must be a slave to Achilles_. The thought makes my blood begin to boil.

If the sight of a scruffy native girl carrying a lot of deadly weapons didn't faze him, I don't know what would. Placing his other hand on his cane, he looks at me expectantly. "Yes? You are?"

Awkwardly, I run my hands through my hair. "Um…I was looking for Achilles. Or Connor. Whoever is there."

The slaves eyes flash, and he cracks into a smile. His speech is slow and his voice is deep and cracked with age. "Well, Connor is out. He'll be back, but in the meantime, I'll fetch Achilles for you. Would you like to come in?" I nod graciously, and the old man steps back to allow me to pass. To be polite, I pull off my muddy leather boots, leaving me in my bare feet.

In front of me is an impressive staircase leading to the next floor. The rest wasn't so impressive. White sheets draped everything in the house, aside from a few things here and there. The old man limped forward, heading towards the back of the manor. "Feel free to look around if you want." He calls before leaving my line of sight, vanishing behind the staircase.

If I was given the chance, I would have sat down on a chair, but there wasn't exactly a chair to sit on. So, I let natural curiosity get the better of me and climb up the steps to the top floor.

Upstairs was much of the same. A bunch of draped furniture and dusty tables. In three rooms, the only thing of interest was a journal and some yellowing newspapers. But I knew better then to snoop into someone's private business. Not that it would do me any good; I can't read.

But the final room was different. Nothing white was to be seen. A large bed with deep red covers stood on the wall next to me. The entire room was filled with native items, the kind of items you couldn't trade for. Clubs hung from the walls above the fireplace. A stick with a ball sat in the corner. A woven piece of deerskin hung on the side, bearing the pattern of a large bear. And a beautiful ornate rug of some kind was thrown over the beds, which I felt complemented it quite nicely,

As I turned to leave, something else caught my eye. It was a necklace, not like mine but of some native origin. As I picked it up, it jingled loosely in my hand. It seemed to be made of shells. And right in the front was a carved turtle, dangling for everyone to see. It struck me that this must be Connor's room. Perhaps this was his mother's…?

Suddenly becoming aware that I shouldn't be holding this necklace. Placing it down gently, I back out of the room and head down the steps. At the bottom, I hear the door open and close, and familiar voice calls out for Achilles.

"Connor?" I hear his feet shuffle as I come down the stairs. Not to my surprise, his weapon, in this case a tomahawk, is out in preparation to fight, and his hood is up. Realizing that it's me, he puts it away in amazement and takes off the hood. "Ava? What are you doing here?"

His voice is accusing, like I'm trespassing on his territory. I'm ready to slap him across the face for talking to me like that.

"So this is Ava?" I hear a deeply amused voice. Turning around, I see the old slave man, standing off to the side as he watches the scene unfold. I'm ready to ask where Achilles was until I see Connor's polite dip of his head. I stare at him incredulously.

"Wait, so you mean _this _is Achilles? This old man? I thought Achilles was white!"

I half expected the man to limp at me and whack me across the head with his cane. Instead, he smiles and lets out a laugh. "You thought I was a slave, correct? Well, that's understandable. You did use to be a slave, after all. Probably aren't used to the idea of a free black man."

"How do you mean? And how did you know that?"

"Connor told me you came from a plantation. That was enough for me to take a guess."

I shoot a sideways look at Connor. His face is still the exact same way it was more than a week ago, unpleasant and unfazed. Instead of staying to witness the talk, or to gain answers, he heads up the stairs, no doubt to go to his room. Sheepishly, I look down. "Sorry, sir."

I get a waved hand in response. "Don't be. It's not the first time, and it certainly won't be the last." He takes a seat not too far from me on an ottoman, one of the only uncovered pieces of furniture in the entire house. With eyes as sharp as stone, his looks me dead in the face. "I can tell why you're here."

I blink, confused, as he continues. "Something with your homecoming has gone wrong, correct? And now, with nowhere else to go, you want to train to be an Assassin. Am I right?"

"Yes."

Our moment is interrupted by Connor's reappearance. He is carrying something long and red. At first I'm confused, but then I recognize my sash, the same one I tied Connor's bandages with.

"My sash!" All my previous anger at the half native evaporates like the morning dew. I snatch it out of Connor's hands and tie it around my waist again. I'm feeling extremely happy that he would even consider giving it back to me. He nods in response and leans against the wall, crossing his arms to complete the task.

"Connor." Achilles deep voice snaps both of us back to the old man. "I'm feeling like having some fresh venison for dinner tonight. Would you mind going to hunt some?"

I get the hint immediately, but Connor stares at Achilles like he's grown a second head. His response is filled with amazement. "Why?"

"Because I am hungry, that's why."

Old man, the herds only graze on the other side of the property. Hunting them will take until sunset!"

"Don't complain, boy." Achilles voice grows stern, and Connor stares at the ground. Accepting his duty, he walks towards the door, pulling the bow off his back as he goes. His mentor calls after him. "And don't forget bring one of the lumbermen's wives to prepare it! God forbid you to cook!" I hear an annoyed grunt in response as the door closes behind him. Achilles and I stand alone.

"I swear," I hear the old man mumble. "The boy has a brilliant tactical mind, but I don't think I've ever met anyone more naive." Turning his attention back to me, he motions with his hand to follow, and I obey. With a gait, he reaches the other door in the back of the house, opens it, and ventures out into the fields behind. Closing the door behind us, I walk after him in my bare feet.

Off to my left, the first thing I see are two gravestones poking out of the ground. I'm dying to ask Achilles about them, but I purse my lips. I figure some things, like Connor's necklace, are best kept private.

Achilles stops at the edge of a large cliff, not too different from the highpoint. But this looks out into a deep and beautiful bay area. Even larger than the one at the plantation. Docked in the middle is a large ship built for fighting in the navy, and the little dots that are the sailors come and go up the paths along the other side. It's truly captivating.

The mentor must have noticed my amazement. "See that ship there?" He asks, pointing with his cane. "Believe it or not, it's Connor's"

"No. Him, a sailor?"

"One would think not, but according to his first mate, he's a natural." Achilles brings the cane back down, leaning on it for support and watching the end dig into the soft soil. "Now, what about your training?" He trails off, lost in thought.

"After Connor came back," He starts, turning my attention back to the man. "He told me about you. About your tribe, and about your predicament. Naturally, of course. I always ask him about his missions, but most of them don't usually end with him coming back shot and healed." He snorted at his own humor, and I stayed silent as I let him continue. "But he also said that you bribed him, am I correct?"

"Not exactly. The way I saw it was that I saved him, so he should help me in return. My father always taught me to repay debts."

"I see." Achilles stared at the crowds of people on the shores below. Smoke was beginning to rise from a little stone hunt near the dock, and even from here, I could hear the merry chanting of seamen. "I'm going to tell you a story. Something that no one else knows besides Connor and I. But I feel that it will help you to understand the truth."

"Back in the days when the Assassins were far more prosperous than we are now, we had allies. They ranged from those over the sea, to those who lived in the forest. Before the order disbanded, I met a young Mohawk girl in the woods. She was fighting her own struggle, and after sharing information about ourselves, we agreed to help each other when the time called." Achilles paused to gather his thoughts. "That woman was Connor's mother."

"What?" I whisper softly. I screw up my mind to make sense of this information, and why it was being shared with me. "Connor's mother was an Assassin?"

"No. I'll repeat, she was just an ally. And a loyal one at that." Achilles looked away. "Connor's mother was brave, yes. But she was too headstrong. Got into a lot of things she shouldn't have. Like her relationship with Connor's father, for example."

Perhaps telling this story was causing Achilles a lot of pain, because he stopped again. The end of his cane was going farther and farther into the earth as he put more of his weight on it.

"Connor's mother died when he was small, from what he told me." Ignoring my gasp, he continues. "And, here he is. Told by those who came before that he needs to be trained. At first, I was reluctant, but then, I saw him fight. Not only did he save my property, but it also reminded me of an old friend I used to have. I gave him the chance; he shared his story, and when all is said and done, I discover he is the son of one of my allies?"

Another pause. "I owe Connor's mother a debt, Ava. Much like you preach, I practice. Do you agree that it is the right thing to do?"

I nod. I know where this is going.

"Then you can understand why I can't train you. I'm sorry."

Part of me wants to cry. To scream. To force Achilles to take me in anyway. To stab his chest right now with my sword. To act in some way different then this cold emptiness I feel. But the problem is…is that I _do _understand. And I hate myself for it.

Yet he has a point. Losing your mother must have been traumatizing; no wonder Connor is so emotionless. I can't imagine what I'd be like if I had lost my father. Maybe I'd go insane. Maybe Connor is just a shattered man behind that stoic persona.

But Achilles is right. He owes nothing to me, so why should I ask for his time. I'm just someone he barely knows, a girl from a place he has no knowledge of. If it weren't for Connor, I'm sure he wouldn't bother to even talk to me. I should be accepting of that, at the very least. "I understand, Achilles. Thank you for hearing me out."

"You're free to live here, if you like. I know you have nowhere to go."

"That's kind, but I can't. I have to be somewhere." I glance back to the Homestead. If I move, I can be out of here by nightfall. What was the point of staying if I wasn't needed? Or wanted?

"Oh?" I've caught his intrigue now, "Where?"

"Boston."

* * *

**Meh, a bit of a lackluster ending. Man, I have to work on those endings! **

**So yeah, Ava's real Assassin's stuff is going to start soon, and we get to see this Cory guy become a MUCH more prominent figure as we explore him in later chapters. Because he's gonna be Ava's partner for the time being. But don't fret! I will be including Connor as well. He's just not as important to Ava at the moment!**

**Hope you enjoyed! See you soon!**


	12. Descend

**Hello again! I hope you all had a lovely first day/week of school *scoffs*. I wrote another chapter, so yay! Go team!**

**By the way, it's come to my attention that there has been a story stolen here in this section. It's called "Mother's Revenge", and it's an exact copy of another story on here that I would think you are all familiar with, even if you haven't read it, "Revenge is Brutal but Essential". I've had a few chats with the author and we both agree that it's unfair to writers everywhere in the same situation. Besides, what's better that coming up with your own ideas and being creative?! All I hope is that this dilemma is taken care of before long.**

**Like always, I don't own Assassin's Creed, but I do own my OC's (I think I'm up to, like, ten now. Oh gosh, I've got OC-trauma.)**

* * *

_March 23rd, 1774_

The trip into Boston was not nearly as bad as I anticipated. In fact, I saw almost no other soul on the journey towards the town. Everyone must be enjoying the good weather too much, and venturing out into the wilds of the frontier seems to have lost its appeal now that the trees weren't shrouded in snow. I didn't mind; the less people for me to see, the better I would feel. For the moment, I preferred the quietness and pleasantness of springtime; having others around would ruin its beauty.

After bidding Achilles farewell, I saddled my dark steed and headed back to the frontier. Along the way, I passed Connor, carrying the limp body of a large buck across his shoulders. Trailing behind him was a rather plump woman, one of the lumbers' wives I assumed. She chattered quite bird-like at his shoulder, but he didn't seem to be listening. As I proceeded past them both, the burly Assassin gave me a questioning look, but did not speak to me. I shook my head, and that was the last I saw of Connor before climbing up the rocks and leaving the homestead.

Although my journey wasn't troublesome, I was kind of bored throughout. After being through the same routine each day for the past month or so: hunting, traveling and sleeping: I was ready for a change. It wasn't until I saw the city for the first time, standing on a large rise a few miles south, did my blood really flow for the first time in weeks. Boston was glorious! Large, populated, and teeming with ships at the harbor. I felt my breath catch in my throat, and it left me in regard for the city and its magnificence. I could see why so many people wanted to settle here; it looked perfect.

Deciding that getting an early start in the morning would be better than wandering lost at night, I construct a camp for the night outside the walls of the city, I restlessly laid awake, going over Cory's instructions in my head. The Green Dragon Tavern…perhaps some kind man or woman would be generous enough to point me in the right direction. Or maybe it was more popular than I assume it to be; maybe I could just follow people around until I spotted it? Nonetheless, I was snoring before my mind could come up with a solution.

Waking up this morning didn't present much of a challenge at all. My feet longed to be on the road and my eyes were begging to see the city up close. The only problem was my skin color. Would I even be allowed into the city, or would I be turned away?

"I guess will have to find out." I mumbled to myself. My horse let out a harsh whinny, like it was laughing at me.

Reminding myself harshly that I need to stop talking to animals or the Assassin will think I'm insane, I mount my mare and spur it, perhaps a little harder than usual. When it's finished letting out a snort of protest, it began to walk again in the direction of the city.

Entering Boston through the gate wasn't too hard. Rather than get pulled over by a redcoat manning the entrance, I was greeted with dirty stares and a spit or two. Nothing I haven't already seen and certainly nothing I couldn't handle. I could feel their eyes watching me closely as I rounded a corner and vanished from sight.

The area I was introduced to was a sort of camp for the redcoats posted in the area, surrounded by stone walls. Going farther past this was nothing but minimal farmland and a couple of houses. I longed to be inside the actual town, but how was I going to get there without running anyone over with my horse? People of all ages and sizes idly sauntered up and down the road I was on with no concern for the public, slowing me down and forcing me to keep my temper. Children usually hung close to their parents but would, more often than not, rush out and bend over to examine something discarded to the sides while their mothers looked on affectionately. When this happened for the twelfth time, I was forced to resist the urge to pull out my bow and arrows and fire one into the child's back. Because that would be wrong. And stupid.

And finally, at long last, I was at another set of stone walls where the city of Boston actually started. Buildings rose out of the ground before me like giant oak trees, and people milled at a couple of market stalls. I was so transfixed with the scene that I didn't notice the voice directed at me. "Excuse me? Excuse me!"

Jolted from my daydreams, I pulled the horse to a halt right before the main entrance. I glanced wildly around while trying to fight the fear rising in my stomach. "Y-yes?" I stammered, trying to swallow my panic.

"Sorry, ma'am, you can't take your 'orse wit you into the city," came the obviously British reply. "Too many folks 'round"

The person who stopped me was a redcoat guard of maybe twenty years old. With freckles and peach fuzz, he could have still been living with his mother and father. Politely, he held out his hand, shifting his musket to the other, so he could take the reins from me.

I'm suddenly reminded of the weapons I carry so prominently on my back, and how having them would probably be one of the good reasons to get me killed. Quickly giving an apology to the young soldier, I clamber down onto solid ground on the other side, with my front facing the guard as he hands my horse off to his partner. As the man leads my mount away, the boy resumes his position. "You have a nice day, ma'am."

I can't believe he's being so civil to me, but I don't want to stay and find out why. "Sorry." I murmur to him as I shuffle backwards into the city, making sure he only sees my front and trying my hardest to be casual. Not exactly how I expected to enter Boston my first time, but are you going to do?

Someone must had caught a glimpse of my weapons, because I hear shouting not too far off. But it's no use; I've melted into the crowds and steadily moving farther and farther away, while at the same time keeping the attention to me limited.

For a while, I wander the streets with spirit, but my happy moods soon give way to fatigue and disappointment after I examine the conditions of the city itself. On the rare occasions that I would go into the towns with Trevor, the town was busy, yes, but not filled to the brim. If anything, Boston seems _too_ full of people. There are so many of them collapsed on the sides of the streets, swigging whiskey or begging for food and shillings. Small children, supposedly unmonitored, scamper across the roads. Dressed in rags and in bare dirty feet, they lash out their hands at the sides of men and women for some reason unknown to me. But those who fall victim shake their hands in fury and run after them. The markets are also a disappointment. They aren't that busy, and those who are there are usually arguing with the man selling the product. I pass a few men, town criers I think they're called, sharing news with the disgruntled townsfolk about the state of the British Empire overseas. The whole place smells of sickness, and I lost count of how many redcoats I saw marching up and down the streets.

Even the people themselves here are drastically different from those I'm used to. The women wear raggedy dresses and shawls in colors that are dull and drab, mixing in with the blandness of their surroundings, while the men dress considerably messier. In the plantation, the normal attire for a white man or woman would be bright and vibrant overcoats or dresses with white frills. Slaves are enlisted to insure the clothing doesn't get dirty by holding it for hours on end. Here, it's like no one cares.

Also, most of the women have their hair in white hats of some sort. I think I remember Jenny once telling me that they were called bonnets? I bring my hands up to my own re-braided hair. Alone, with my pants and hair and skin and weapons, I'd stand out like a sore thumb. I'm thankful for the large crowds to protect me from the wandering eyes of soldiers.

One of the orphans, a small boy with very short hair, runs out of a nearby alley and up to my side and making a grab for my sash. As soon as I felt the pudgy hands tug at my garment, I yank my body forward and pull away. When I do so, I feel the sash unknot and slip away from my waist. We fall apart, spinning around so we face each other. The boy stares at my sash with undisguised sadness, and his eyes widen with unbridled terror as he catches sight of the sabers on my back. With some kind of fearful respect, he hands me back my sash, which I promptly take and retie.

I can't help but feel sorry for the kid. "Go on." I speak to him directly. "I won't hurt you."

His horror-filled face breaks into a toothy smile. "Thank you, miss!" He responds with a fierce series of nods before sprinting to the other side of the street and disappearing into another alleyway.

The child's voice was incredibly high, too high to a boy. As I recommence my walking, it strikes me that it probably wasn't a boy.

I feel as though by now I should have found the Green Dragon Tavern. But Boston was proving to be quite a challenge to navigate. I couldn't climb the rooftops, for I would be shot down by the guards posted there. I lift my head up to see the tops of the houses in front; guards glared down at the masses of people swarming below.

Just as I'm contemplating on asking a man walking in front to direct me, I'm met with a blast of foul smelling alcohol. Over on my right, the door to a building swings open, revealing three drunk-looking men. They stumble around, speaking in some sort of slurred drunken tongue. Taking my chances, I venture off the street and head inside of the tavern.

The innards of the bar, as I expected, contained people all in various forms of stupor. Some were passed out on chairs, others stirred slightly as they heard the clunk of my wooden bottomed shoes across the floor. Granted, some of the men and women were active, but they seemed ready to dissolve into a daze as well. The wooden floor was covered in mud and broken glass, and some interesting stains spattered the wall that I didn't have the courage to examine. Behind the bar was a plump woman in her thirties, cleaning a glass with a dirty rag. Had it not been for the quality of her lifestyle, she might have been quite beautiful, but time and poor living showed in every part of her body. She had a nasty face and grimy hair tied up on top of her head. Unlike other woman I had seen, she wore a sort of cap on her scalp. An apron was tied around her waist, once white but now browning from the filth of her surroundings.

She didn't look up as I approached her. "We ain't got any gin, hon. If you want that, go elsewhere," she greeted me stiffly.

"Is this the Green Dragon Tavern, ma'am?" I pull a stool from under the bar and take a seat.

Snorting, the woman still didn't look up from her work. "Na, this is the Geier. Dragon's farther up the street. You can't miss the place even if you tried." Finishing her polishing, the woman looked up and gave me a hard examination. "Guess you wouldn't know that, eh? Don't look like you're from 'ere."

Reddening at her offhand comment, I push myself away from the counter. "Then I'll just be going."

I'm about to stand back up until the woman waves her hand in a disconcerting manner. Hesitating slightly, I pull my stool back to the counter. As I do, the woman picks up another glass. "Don't bother. What wit' taxes and everything, money's 'ard to come by. I take what I get, and I ain't got room to let people walk." Dropping her rag in a barrel filled with what I hoped was water, she picks up a fresh one. "My name's Clara, by the way. An' that lout over there is my 'usband, Jasper."

Jasper, as it turned out, was just another man sleeping at an empty table, hunched over a large bottle of liquor. He blended in with his environment so well that my eyes passed over him several times. He let out a shuddering sniffle and licked his lips, sending drool spilling over his cheeks and onto the table. Slightly disgusted, I turn my attention back to Clara. "I'm Ava."

"What business you got with the Green Dragon, Ava?" Clara puts down her work and leans over the bar. Up close, I can see she is missing quite a few teeth, and her breath smells like a mixture of beer and rotten eggs. I do my best to not screw up my face and look away.

"I'm meeting someone."

At the mention of a meeting, Clara relaxes herself and pulls away. At last, I draw in fresh air that doesn't smell too terrible. Cracking the tension between the two of us, I stand up for the last time to exit the Geier tavern. Clara doesn't stop me this time. "Come back if you want a drink, Ava," she addresses me in her broken English accent. I hollowly promise her that I will before finally exiting.

I can't believe at first how refreshing it is to be back on the gross streets, but at least I know where Cory will be now. Picking up my pace, I speed my way down the street, looking for any signs of another tavern.

As I walk, I see more of the same. Ragged people, orphan children, and stray animals. Yet, as I rounded a corner, I saw a family, with a son screaming in his mother's arms and a daughter in tears, fighting against the muskets of a few redcoats while another man, I assumed the father, was dragged away by the rest of the patrol. Although I felt my heart shatter for them, everyone, including me, turned their heads as the man was being taken farther and farther from his wife, and her screams echoed throughout the street as the citizens of Boston all turned from her dilemma. I felt sick as the noise behind me began to finally fade and die away.

I complete a few streets when at last I see another bar. The faded sign hanging above bears an image of a large winged animal that I supposed it was a dragon. Without any reconsideration, I pull the door open and shut it swiftly, taking in the scene around me.

This place was considerably cleaner and more populated than Clara's tavern. Realizing this, I feel kind of bad for Clara and her business. If money was as hard to come by as she said, then I couldn't blame her for her poor attitude. Immersed in their drinks, no one notices as I take a seat in the far corner of the place and take off my weapons. I slide them under the table, out of sight from preying eyes, and hope that Cory comes soon. Not a long time after, an old woman in considerably cleaner clothes than those around her approached me and asked if I wanted anything. When I mentioned that I was waiting for Cory, per his instruction, she only nodded and let me be. Hours passed, and I began to wonder if the he was in trouble. He may be on a mission, or whatever he did as an Assassin. After the crowd at the tavern cleared up considerably and Cory still wasn't anywhere to be seen, I began to wonder if he planned this all along. To make me look like a fool in the first place. Perhaps he was laughing behind the counter with the barmaid. He was probably long gone by now. It was stupid to trust him…

"Ava? Ava, wake up!"

My eyes snap open. I must have drifted off due to the smell of the whiskey, but I had no idea when or for how long. Practically no one was here now, and the old barmaid was humming to herself as she swept the floors. Standing before me was Cory, hood down and smiling like the cocky solider he was. "You came! Donna was convinced you weren't going to show up."

I rub my eyes. I'm so disoriented. "What time is it?"

"About nine at night." Cory runs a hand through his hair, like I do when I get nervous or feel awkward. "Sorry for not being here earlier. But it's been a week. Maybe more. I thought you weren't coming."

"It's alright."

I shake my head, half to dismiss his apology and half to clear my mind from the fumes of the tavern. My stomach growls loudly, making me remember just how hungry I am. Glancing up from her sweeping, Donna the barmaid snaps her attention back to us. "Can you two leave? I have to close up soon, you know!" she shouts sternly.

Cory promises to her that we will as I bend down under the table to collect my things. When I have everything, the Assassin takes me by the hand and leads me out the front door. After spending a few hours in the Green Dragon, the night air is blissful on my cheeks, and I take it in eagerly.

"So." Cory begins, leading me around the corner of the tavern. "How do you like Boston?"

I think about Clara, and the family, and that one orphan, and all the stray animals. "It's great," I lie halfheartedly.

Behind the building is a small clearing, enclosed on all sides by walls of bricks. A tree has just managed to grow and stay healthy in the middle of this wasteland. Tugging my wrist, Cory guides me over to a large door coming out of the ground. Its red paint is peeling, and a few boards from the front are hanging loosely or torn off completely. Without a second thought, Cory grabs the handle and pulls it open, revealing another door.

"Is tha-," My bones become frozen as he starts forward again. "-are we going _underground?_"

Cory stops, looking at me with a questioning expression, "Yes, we are. Why?"

I shake my head. "I-I can't." His face changes from confusion to concern as I start to back away. Gently, Cory holds me back.

"What, are you afraid of the dark?" He asks me softly. I avert my eyes as I nod in response.

I can't see what he's picking up, but he bends over for a brief moment before returning with a metal lantern and two black rocks. Placing the lantern down and opening the glass around it, he smacks the two rocks together. The sounds jar me as they grew louder with each strike. At last, sparks emitted from them, and a tiny fire was soon glowing on the small wick in the center. After blowing on it to make it larger, Cory closes the glass shut and hands it to me. "Then you can hold the lantern."

Swallowing, I take the handle as Cory opens the door and leads me inside.

At first, it's not so bad. We descend a flight of wooden stairs and come across another door, which leads to a small room dimly light by more fires. Boxes and barrels are all tied together with copious amounts of rope. It's damp and dirty and smells terrible. Flanking the sides of the room are two tunnels, one to the left and one to the right. I want to run out and go back to the surface but Cory still has a grip on my wrist.

"Cory, why are we down here?" I whimper as something sounds not too far from our position, sending a new wave of fear rushing up my spine.

Unlike me, Cory is completely composed. He stands tall and intimidating as he begins to walk down the path to the left. "Because I live down here," he answers me simply.

"What?" I demanded. "You live _here_? Why would you want to?"

I can't tell for sure, but Cory bites his lip before responding to me. "Because it's safe. And we don't have to worry about anyone finding us," he pauses, "except maybe the smugglers."

_Smugglers?_ Forget running. I'm feeling faint now. But Cory still has a hold on me, and I'm not going anywhere at the moment, much to my chagrin.

The small lantern I'm holding in my right hand offers little sight, so I'm bumping into wooden posts and more boxes as we delve deeper. "It's alright, no one has ever found me down here," Cory assures me, "we'll be safe, I promise."

I know he's trying to be nice, to be reassuring, but even I can hear the doubt that pricks his voice ever so slightly.

To my relief, Cory didn't lead us as far into the tunnels as I thought. It was just after a long narrow hallway, supported by rotten wooden beams and chewed nets, that we approached a metal gate leading deeper into the underground. Unlatching the gates, Cory leads me into a much wider room than that of which we entered. Besides the obvious fact that it was pitch black, it wasn't too bad. I felt my muscles relax slightly as Cory motions me over to a large hole in the floor. Boards surround it on all sides, essentially fencing it off to curious wanderers, and it's dark as hell down there. Who knows how deep it is?

I give him a hard stare. "You live down there?" Why?"

"It's safer." With that, Cory takes the lantern from my hands, clenching it with his teeth, and hops over the side, dropping into the black before I can even get a word in edgewise. My heart skips a beat as I watch, but I hear the thud and a hefty grunt as he hits the floor as I draw breath for a gasp.

Now that he has the lantern, I can see that the ground below us is maybe a three meter drop, possibly less. Swinging ungracefully, I stiffly follow Cory down as he wanders off to light a torch on the wall. I brush myself off as he lights another.

Now that this little hideout is illuminated, I can see that it is covered in damp, foul smelling straw. I guess I should count myself fortunate that it lacked animals. Tucked away into the corner were two cots in reasonable shape, cleaner than anything I had seen in this city yet, anyways. A large human sized burlap sack, stuffed to the breaking point with hay, was propped against one of wooden beams holding up the ceiling. Near the cots were boxes and bags that I supposed belonged to Cory or his family.

"Is this alright?" Cory asks unexpectedly, startling me out of my thoughts, "I hope it's not too cramped for you. With your fea-"

"It's fine." I cut him off effectively. "It's perfectly alright. I," I sweep my eyes around the room again. Off in the distance is the sound of water falling, and the small torch fires flicker every second. "I can live with this."

I guess my answer was satisfying, for Cory collapses on one of the cots, dropping the lantern next to him with a clatter on one of the boxes. Feeling asleep on my feet, I join him on the other. His cocky smile is back on his face, facing the ceiling on his back as we talk some more. "I'm glad. Because if you didn't, either we'd be on the streets or you would have to deal with it." The fire makes Cory's face appear more sunken, giving him the appearance of a man much more ancient.

I turn myself onto my back. "So, now what?"

"Training'll start tomorrow. We'll wake early and start with wall climbing at dawn, when there'll be less guards. Then, we can come back here and do hand to hand combat." Cory pauses for a minute, making the silence almost crushing, before speaking to me with concern in his tone. "Look, Ava. Are you sure you want to do this?"

I close my eyes. I can see my father. My tribe. My friends. Everyone I ever cared for. I feel like I've lost everything. I need to put my faith into something. Or someone. "Yes, I'm sure."

I can hear Cory flip over on his side to my right. 'Then we'll need to get a set of robes. And maybe do something about those swords. They're too heavy for you." His speech is interrupted by a loud yawn. I smile to myself as he shakes himself. "I'll tell you in the morning. Get some sleep, _apprentice._"

My body is relaxed for the first time in months, and I'm feeling safer than I've ever felt before. "Cory?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you…can you keep the lantern on?"

"…Yeah. Yeah, of course, Ava."

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**I'm going to skip through most of Ava's training, so don't be alarmed if you see an arbitrary jump through time (it is going to be a year, most likely). Just to let you know.**

**Thank you for reading, reviewing, favoriting, following, breathing, writing, living, and being great people!**


	13. Men of War

**Hello again! Nice to be back. I haven't posted another chapter in.. what, a month? I guess it's progress.**

**So, I'm not gonna lie, I've been feeling a bit discouraged about the lack of reviews. I'm not a beggar but I would like to know if all my hard work is paying off, or if you guys like it or not. So maybe if I get 10 reviews, I'll write the next chapter (it's a goal but I'll still write if I don't reach it. Just a small request?)**

**As always, me no own Assassin's Creed. Me do own my OCs. Enjoy!**

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_December 18__th__, 1774_

More than a year had passed since I started my Assassin training and began to live with Cory. We worked constantly, and his patience with me was rewarded by my steady growth as a capable warrior. We began each day with climbing and running along the various buildings of Boston, which was a lot harder than I anticipated. Hand to hand combat was done in the privacy of the hideout. Long range weapons were practiced outside the walls of the city. Cory's gentle and laid back nature ensured me that my training would pay off, and he was right. My legs became steadier, my arms and hands because stronger, my feet became swifter. The wasted muscle that clung to me for nine years gradually reformed and became healthy again. I could shoot a moving rabbit through the eye from fifteen meters away. But in our eyes, it was my proficiency with the sabers that was the most remarkable change.

The blacksmith had re-shaped the metal and balanced them so they fit in my hands. They had lost some of the power that made them stronger than the average blade, but they still worked exceptionally, and I had become a master of these weapons by the time my training was complete. Cory and I worked on the dominant hand first, then I was trained to use my left as proficiently as my right. I could wield both swords at the same time if necessary, but I would sometimes lose focus with one hand and only fight with the other. Cory had me promise to work on it, and I still am.

The rest of my weapons lacked the same flashiness the sabers had. Just a few tools, my bow and arrows, and my very own set of hidden blades. I still don't know where they came from. Cory came back one day and he just…had them. I wasn't complaining, of course, but it nagged in the back of my mind occasionally like a harbor rat chewing through rotted wood.

I'd come to know the Assassin plenty over the course of the year. He was one year older than I suspected I was. I learned that he was Irish: his mother and father came over to the colonies when they were young and in love. His father was an Assassin who died when Cory was eight, leaving behind his wife and four children. His mother, fortunately, was still alive and living in the North with Cory's siblings, one older and two younger. He was laid back and cocky, but far more serious when he was focusing or fighting. He also loved freshly cooked bread; he always made me buy some when I went to the markets. After discovering thatI was illiterate, Cory made part of our training sessions dedicated to reading and writing. That was the part of my time with him that came most naturally.

Despite our slow friendship, we got into plenty of arguments over the course of my training. Cory rarely got angry, but when he did, he was rabid. The one I remember most was about the pistols. I just couldn't carry any weapon that I didn't feel connected to on a personal level. And truthfully, I was terrified of them. I initially refused to use any, ignoring that part of the training entirely, and Cory belittled me each night in the hopes that I might change my mind. The fighting turned fierce until we finally agreed on a compromise that I would carry one pistol and he would teach me how to use that.

Another major argument was on my hair. I wasn't exactly bounded to the ways of my tribe anymore, but when Cory suggested I cut it, I nearly punched him. Trimming it to keep it an acceptable length was allowed, but chopping the whole thing off was only done in times of mourning, and it was considered dishonorable to do in any other situation. In the end, I wrapped the braid around in a bun when I had the robes on, and let it down whenever I didn't. It killed my head after a while, but it was a lot better than running a blade through the dark locks.

Speaking of the robes, they were made custom by a tailor friend of Cory's whom I never got the chance to meet, and despite my own misgivings about being an Assassin, I did quite like them. They were an interesting cross between Cory's and Connor's robes. The top resembled a white redcoat jacket like the former, yet the bottom was looser with tails like the latter. The blue accents fluttered behind me whenever I jumped. The waistcoat wasn't as wide or bulky as either of theirs, but it worked well with my bindings to hide my "female parts", as Cory referred to them. My pants and boots were the same, and I had the signature hood that was nothing special in its own right.

When I wasn't training, I found myself spending my time in either Boston, the homestead, or the frontiers that lay between. From Boston, the homestead was about a day's journey by horse, and I quite liked the trips over there. I had initial reluctance originally about going back to Connor's home, but I found myself going there more and more often as Cory became more obsessed with research and more lenient about my training. In fact, Connor became an occasional sparring partner for me when my mind wasn't set on hunting, training, or getting back to the hideout.

Of course, I was never able to beat Connor. He was far stronger and heavier than I was; he used it to his advantage well. And my sabers versus that tomahawk of his? Forget it. The only thing I could beat him in was the amount of times I had to twist and duck to make sure my head wasn't sailing across the clearing in front of the stables. The one activity I could win, after six months of training, was speed, where his size was actually hindering him. Because of his freakish body, Connor lacked constant stamina, and smaller branches that I could run across would snap under his weight.

The people of the small village were quite friendly once I slowly became acquainted with them, but they weren't very social. I haven't spoken to Achilles since my first visit. Robert Faulkner, Connor's naval mentor and first mate, was drunk from dusk till dawn. Terry and Godfrey, the two lumbermen, were very kind and funny when they weren't absorbed in their work. Myriam was quite nice as well, but I noticed that she preferred to keep to herself in the middle of the woods where no one would venture. Even Warren and Prudence, two former slaves turned farmers that moved to the homestead three months ago, were more focused on growing their family then making friends. I understood that everyone needed their privacy, but it was bothersome that they kept ignoring me despite my best efforts otherwise.

And so, I grew closer to Cory and his mission compared to anyone else. These past few months have been dedicated to hunting down our first target, and we had a lead on a Templar named William Johnson until he died of a stroke a few months ago. Since then, we've had to track down couriers, mercenaries, and thieves until we finally found a lead on a Templar we could end. That day came far sooner then I wished for.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

I was back in the hideout, working on my left hand with the saber on a sack stuffed with hay. Two smaller sacks hung off the sides in an attempt to pose as arms. I swung once, then twice. The left arm came off swiftly, but the right arm was cut about halfway before catching my sword in the middle. _You can allow for any hesitation,_ Cory's words rang in my ears. Frustrated, I wrenched the sword out of the dummy, gripped it with both hands, and brought it down on the dummy's arm. It chopped cleanly through this time and landed on the ground with a satisfying thud.

"Angry today, aren't we?"

I turned around, trying to stifle my panting. Cory dropped into the hideout, carrying a letter and looking half pleased, half exasperated. "Now we're going to have to get another sack."

I sheathed my saber. "What is it? Did you find anything?"

Cory's eyes brightened, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did." Pulling off his hood, he unfolded the letter, holding it to the torchlight to read, "I nicked this off of a courier that was heading to the northern shipyards. This man, Theodore Wilkinson, is a supposed Son of Liberty, but this letter says here that he's making man-of-wars for the Crown. Says here he's working in direct correspondence with the Templar Grandmaster."

I wrinkled my nose. I've heard of the Sons of Liberty, but I've never met any of them. Connor once told me that he corresponds with Samuel Adams, their leader, but that was all the information I could muster out of him.

Folding up the yellowed paper once more, Cory shoved it back into his leather pouch on his waist. I crossed my arms, "So that means the shipyards are the best place to start looking."

"Exactly."

At that, Cory turned around and climbed out of the hideout. I followed suit. My fingers gripped the wooden beams on the sides; they've grown calloused from the constant climbing in and out. At the top, Cory offered me his hand, which I accepted. We found the exit, Cory going slowly to accommodate my wariness, and emerged to the low hanging winter sun.

Boston was covered in a white blanket of snow for most of the month. Men grabbed their coats and women tied their shawls. Cory and I kept to the ground, shuffling through the masses to go to the northern parts of the city.

I've been here a few times. It's nothing special, and it's not a far journey. The area has been cleared away to make room for the overseeing of massive ships, built for grandiose naval warfare. Most of them take months, even seasons to complete. I've never been much for the sea, preferring to travel over land then over water, but Cory always found fascination with these vessels. Even I'll admit: there is something awe-inspiring of the projects towering over even the residence.

In the shipyards, every able man in Boston is working here. Some saw large pieces of wood. Some haul materials up to the tops of the boat. Some sand the unpainted sides so the wood is smooth. A few redcoats patrol here and there, but it is mostly hired men overseeing this project, which I more fitting I guess. If the letter rings true, then Wilkinson would want less attention from the Crown.

I peered around the corner of a building as a group of redcoats passed Cory and I. I could feel Cory's hand on my shoulder as he looked over me.

My eyes flick back and forth, "Do you even know who we're looking for?" I whisper.

"Not exactly," Cory's voice hisses in my ear, "It's not like the letter had a drawing of the man."

Frustration broke out across my forehead once again. "Then what did you expect us to do? Wait until someone _prestigious_ enough passes by?"

I heard Cory snicker and then wheeze as I kicked his shin. His voice was laced with pained amusement as he answered, "Well, we could always tail someone."

"What's the likelihood that we find someone worth following?"

"You'd be surprised," Cory lifted his finger to point in the direction of a mercenary patrol. A man smaller than all the rest was listening and nodding as the soldiers talked to him. As they finished, the smaller man straightened his hat and raced away down an alley.

I felt a light kick hit me in my arse, "Go get 'em, Ava."

Letting out a snort to let him know of my annoyance, I turned around and ran into the streets after the courier. He wasn't easy to pick out, but he was fortunately walking slowly enough that I could catch up with him once I did. I glanced upwards to the guards posted below; they were watching the crowds as they sauntered through the busy streets. I pulled my hood down even further to shield my eyes. I knew that I would have to wait until the man passed into an alley for any chance to confront him without drawing attention.

The man briskly turned right and headed down a narrow strip between two buildings. I cut through the masses and followed him suit. Peering around the corner, I could see he was starting to get edgy by the way he looked upward. Not wanting to miss my chance, I turned the corner and raced down the alley, tackling the courier before could even realize what was going on. I cupped my hand over his mouth and, granted with some effort, pushed him against the wall. I'd seen Cory do this plenty of times before, and I didn't want to screw up. The faster I got the information, the faster this assassination could be over with.

I could see the fear and surprise in his eyes as I held him against the wall. Making sure my grip was tight enough, I unsheathed my hidden blade with my free hand behind my back and held it up for him to see. His eyes got, if possible, even wider. I thought they were going to pop out of their sockets.

I tried to keep my voice as deep and steady as possible, "I'm going to ask once," I removed my hand a little from his mouth so he could breathe and talk, but moved the blade a little closer. I could feel him start to squirm under my grasp, "what do you know about know about Theodore Wilkinson?"

"I don't know nothing, I swear it!" The poor man's voice was as squeaky as a loose floorboard. "All I know is he and some of 'is friends are gonna 'ave a meeting tonight at the docks. I-I was just delivering somethin', tis all." With shaky hands, he pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. I sheathed my blade and snatched it out of his fingers, letting him fall to the ground as I unfolded and read the words. But all it said was-

"Names," I whispered, more curious than hostile, "what are these names for?"

"Just some people they were lettin' go come the end of the month," the courier explained shakily.

I sighed. This conversation lead almost nowhere. Almost. I pocketed the letter and began to walk out of the alley when the man piped up again, "Um, excuse me? Can I,-I mean, can I go home?"

I nodded. Not wasting any time, the man gathered his belongings and what was left of his dignity and scurried away. I felt bad for him: the man wasn't a Templar, just an unfortunate lout who'd gotten mixed into a mess he couldn't fathom. As he raced for home, I re-entered the busy streets of Boston to return to Cory with my information.

We waited until dusk as the workers started to return home for the night. When the area was deserted, Cory decided that the best course of action would be to climb aboard the largest of the unfinished man-of-wars and wait until Wilkinson showed up, then assess the situation from there. And we did so. But the wait lasted well into the night. And even though the views were great, I got bored with being stuck in a giant ship after a while. I could tell that Cory was feeling the same way.

"Are you sure you got the right information?" he complained as he leaned against the wall of the ship, "Maybe that man gave you wrong times to fool you."

I thought back to earlier that day as I kept a lookout, "I don't think he'd do that. I mean, the man nearly wet himself."

Cory's gray eyes flickered as he opened them, "That's the reason you're so convinced he's telling the truth?"

"What- you think you could do any better?"

Just then, movement caught my eye. I held up my hand as Cory opened his mouth for another retort. Soon, he was right next to me as we stared out into Boston.

A patrol made up of mercenaries and redcoats was heading towards the shipyard. Between their little groups were two men. Even at this distance, I could sense that they were locked in an argument: too distracted to look up at the ships.

Slowly, I pulled the bow off my shoulders and reached for an arrow from my quiver, which was tied to my saber sheathe. I notched it as the men crept closer and closer. As the men reached the incline to walk up the base of our ship, I had a clear shot at one of the guards, but Cory's hand pulled the bow, and me, downwards.

"If you shoot," he murmured sternly, "we'll never find out what the Templars are planning. Let's not be so rash, ok?"

_Is that a bad thing?_

I shook my bow out of his grasp, thinking hard. "Fine," I finally replied, "but if he sees us, if anyone sees us, I'm shooting. Got it?"

I didn't wait for his remark. I peered over the edge as the group passed below us and headed left towards the back side of the ship, the one facing the ocean. Slowly, I crawled forward to follow them with Cory behind me. The conversation became louder as one of the men raised his voice.

"-gether, which will only lead to disarray! Tell Kenway, Church, that I don't have the supplies, nor the manpower, for this outrageous request!"

I stuck my nose just over the edge of the ship. There, outside of the captain's quarters, were the two men caught in the argument. One of them, the one who had just spoken, was surprisingly young. He was incredibly well-dressed, I would be lying if I said I didn't envy his clothing. His face was shaven clean with light brown hair atop his head and a face as red as the jackets of the redcoats surrounding them.

The other man opposite him was, for lack of a better word, plump. His hair, on the contrary to his rather attractive counterpart, was dull and graying. Yet, he gave off so much confidence and poise in his stance alone I was surprised that he didn't just assault the man: he would most likely have won.

As I pondered this, the man whom I guessed was Church spoken again, "Because, Wilkinson, you swore an oath to this order. I'm not the man in charge. A few ships: that is all Master Kenway asked for. The least you can do is oblige."

"I'd be happy to," Wilkinson interceded, throwing his face into Church's, "but _someone _cut off my funds. I have enough money to send this fleet to the Crown by the next month, possibly longer." I noticed some of the redcoats shuffled their muskets in their hands with uneasiness, "Yet, you still demand this…this entire armada to blockade Boston. What would that do? I agree that these people need to be handled with force, but force within reason." Wilkinson pulled away at last, turning away darkly, "Just get the British commander to lay small siege on the city! That would do the trick."

"That's the most idiotic suggestion you've spewed out of that sewer of a mouth! You're the only one out of us who supports the Crown," Church spoke with strain in his tone, as if they had already gone over this subject, "The rest of us sympathize with the Patriots."

"Speaking of which," once again, Wilkinson interrupted, "How long do I have to keep this 'Sons of Liberty' guise? I've earned their trust; it's only a matter of time before they find out that half the ships I make go to their enemy."

"Long enough to make sure that they won't bother us again," Church answered through gritted teeth, "And long enough to make sure the Assassins above us don't go blabbing to the populace!"

I only saw Wilkinson's head whip upward, his gaze locking with mine for a brief second, before Cory grabbed the back of my robes and pulled me back. I was thrown onto my back was my partner stood up, pulling his sword out of his belt, "Get up. We're gonna have a fight on our hands."

I scrambled up and managed to get my swords out as the group of mercenaries and redcoats found their way up to the top of the man-of-war. I could hear the pounding of footsteps that told me Church and Wilkinson were getting away. Before I could tell Cory, the group charged, muskets and axes ablaze.

I dodged the first ones musket with relative ease, sending a good-placed sword swipe at his leg to trip him. As he fell to the floor, I countered another man's attack. Unfortunately, he didn't attack alone; a redcoat took a shot at my leg with his musket bayonet. I could feel it puncture the area around my knee as I gasped and fell to my knees. I managed to pull up the sabers and connect with a good slash to both of their sides before they could do any real damage. I stood up, mentally checking the injury. It wasn't too bad: Cory's given me worse wounds in sparring.

The memory made me turn my head to observe my companion. Cory fought with expert precision. He spun under the attack of one man, watched as it connected with a guard with his back turned, then twisted around and stabbed his assailant's throat with his hidden blade. I felt a flash of admiration for my partner as I parried another attack, sending the end of my other sword through his ribcage. I closed my eyes to shut out the sight of his face, placing my foot on his chest to wiggle my saber out. He fell heavily to the ground, and it was over. In one half a second.

Sure, I'd killed men after I started my training. But it's not like I enjoyed it.

As Cory dispatched his last man with a hidden blade to the abdomen, I sliced my final foe's throat with a flick of my right hand. Both fell to the ground on top of their dead comrades, at least ten in total. Aside from my knee, nothing else got majorly damaged. Cory's top lip was bleeding, but he looked fine as well. Small splatters of blood stained the front of our robes, but that was a small worry.

I glanced in the town's edge. Church and Wilkinson were long gone by now, so there was no point in chasing after them. Especially through the more crowded areas of Boston, "What do we do now?"

Cory sheathed his sword, letting out a sigh of disappointment, "We'll just have to see what happens. But I doubt he'll be going back to the Templar hideout. Wherever that is."

"Why not?"

"It seemed pretty clear that the Templar's ties with Wilkinson are already strained. With all of the attention that this commotion will draw, Kenway probably won't want any communication with him for a while."

I put one sword in the sheath, "I don't suppose that means we stop tracking him, right?"

Cory looked back up to me, eyes brimming with sympathy rather than annoyance, "I understand you don't want to kill anyone, Ava. But Wilkinson's responsible for a lot of indirect murder by making ships for the British. And a man that young probably couldn't have gotten in the position he's in by being a saint. I'm sure he had help along the way. Whether or not it's from the Templars, I don't know."

That made sense, but I still didn't accept it just yet.

"Anyways," Cory carefully made his way to the end of the ship. I trailed behind him, "We need to get out of here. Besides, I'm exhausted. Let's lay low for a little bit."

Climbing down the wooden ramps of the man-of-war, we left the stinking bodies of the dead men in the same spots we left them. As we trudged through the snowy streets back to the Green Dragon, I could see the early rays of sunlight begin to penetrate the sleeping city.

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**Yay! More adventures with Cory and Ava! **

**Thanks for reading. Please leave a review. And I'll see you all later.**


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